


Whispers in the Dark

by M_Moonshade



Series: The Return of Scoutmaster Harlan [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Earl Whump, M/M, Revolution, Strexcorp, badassery, recorporealization, shipper on board
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-04 10:59:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He might have looks on his side, but you have will. You clawed your way out of oblivion for Cecil. Don’t think that’s meaningless."</p><p>Earl scrubs his hand down his face. He shouldn’t feel better for hearing that. He’s not that kind of guy, honest. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says. “But… yeah. Um. I should let you know. I think I’m sick. They’ve got me in quarantine right now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You lie here broken and naked

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this prompt on Sally's tumblr: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/69645431710/what-if-diego-learns-that-cecil-used-to-have-a-thing
> 
> Diego (Desert Bluffs Carlos) is Sally's creation.
> 
> Every chapter title is a lyric from a song titled with some variation of "Whispers in the Dark," because I'm a dork like that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After he was taken by the Mute Children, Earl finds himself inexplicably alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Whispers in the Dark by Skillet

Scoutmaster Earl Harlan curls in the corner, his head between his legs, and hopes his boys can’t see him now. A Scout is always prepared, and a Scoutmaster should be even more so. But it’s been months since he’s had corporeal form. His eyes are readjusting to seeing only in three dimensions, his ears to the constant drum of a human heartbeat, his skin to the constant itch and buzz of clothing and floor and tiny currents of air that pass through the room, and the sensory overload has left him retching onto the too-cold-too-flat-too-metallic floor for the last hour.

People— two arms two legs and faces, that’s right, that’s what they look like, isn’t it?— come in, one wiping him down with a cold-slippery-wet towel, another mopping up the foul-smelling mess he’s left on the floor. As they leave, a third person enters, and the room goes dark.

Earl can’t hold back a whimper of relief. Smell and touch and hearing still crash over him, but they aren’t nearly as overwhelming as the bright light that had been bleeding red through his eyelids.

“Earl Harlan,” says the man in the dark. “Welcome back to the living.”

Earl stiffens. He forgot what it meant to see, to breathe, to have a pulse, but he never once forgot his name.

“Who’s there?” His voice is hoarse, his throat burned from stomach acid. His tongue fumbles to form the words, so he’s not particularly offended when the man in the dark ignores his question.

“You must be thirsty. After all, it’s been— what, months?— since you’ve had anything to drink.” Footsteps, and then a glass is pressed into Earl’s hands and raised slowly to his lips. The liquid doesn’t taste right to be water, but it’s cold and cool and refreshing, and it soothes his mangled throat. He drinks greedily, the liquid spilling across his face.

“Thank you,” he gasps. He doesn’t remember it being this hard to reconcile drinking and breathing and talking. But then, he doesn’t remember it being this hard to pick out words from between the sound of his own pulse, either. Apparently there’s a learning curve.

“Not at all.” The man’s voice is louder now. Closer. Immediately over him, if Earl guesses correctly. “It’s important to us that you’re comfortable, Mr. Harlan.”

“I—” Slowly. One syllable at a time. “I don’t understand. How did I get here? The mute children…” The sentence falls apart as he looks for a word for what they did to him.

“Not everyone makes the mistake of underestimating the destructive capabilities of adolescents,” says the man. “As it turns out, our corporation recently acquired some assets that were most helpful in counteracting their kind.”

“Assets?”

“Angels,” the man in the dark clarifies.

“Angels don’t exist.” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them. It’s a reflex.

“I admire your faith in your municipal leaders, Mr. Harlan,” says the man in the dark. “But their determination to disbelieve is what got you dragged into the void. You could have been saved if only you’d been willing to accept help.” That last word doesn’t sound quite right, coming from the stranger. Earl wonders if its definition has changed since he lost his body.

“You mean like your help, now,” Earl says. His voice is stronger now.

“You returned of your own volition,” says the man in the dark. “We merely opened the rift for you to come back. And you were driven to come back. I’m curious, what is it that had you so motivated?”

Earl presses his lips into a thin line before the name can escape.

 _Cecil_.

His pulse races at the memory of his old friend. His stomach lurches.

“You know how it is,” he mumbles, once he trusts his mouth not to betray him. “I didn’t survive to be Scoutmaster for nothing.”

“No, you certainly didn’t.” There’s a shrug in the man’s voice, but not an unkind one. “I congratulate you, Mr. Harlan. Few men are gifted with a second chance at life. I do hope you make the most of it.” Footsteps, getting quieter as they move away.

“Wait,” Earl says. “You didn’t tell me. Who are you?”

The footsteps stop. A slight twist of fabric as the man turns back to him. “You may call me Diego.”


	2. Learn your lesson, lead me home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After StrexCorp resurrects him, Earl tries to get his old life back in order. It goes about as well as you might expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The glorious and ever-talented Nazi Nurse illustrated this chapter: http://videntefernandez.tumblr.com/post/70000964278/welcome-to-night-vale-fanfiction-whispers-in-the-dark
> 
> Chapter title from Whispers in the Dark by Mumford and Sons

Earl can’t help but feel uncomfortable in his new clothes. They’re nice an all, but of all the things his mysterious benefactors have, a proper Scout uniform isn’t one of them. His own was reduced to shreds by the Mute Children as they dragged him through the rift, and even Earl’s not unconsiderable skill with a needle (a holdover from earning his Emergency Fashion badge) isn’t enough to convert the pieces into anything larger than a loincloth. He salvages what badges he can, though, and stores them in a little envelope. Diego voices his disapproval with a backhanded compliment about Earl’s loyalty to the organization that got him killed.

Earl forgives his cynicism. Diego isn’t a Scout. He couldn’t understand if he tried. Besides, it’s not like Earl can hold a grudge on the guy. Diego and StrexCorp pulled him out of the rift, and then they got him cleaned up, healthy, and even drove him back to Night Vale. At this point, thinking badly of them would be just plain rude.

He isn’t terribly surprised to find his apartment filled with new residents— it’s an excellent location, and he wasn’t exactly paying rent while he was incorporeal. His belongings should have been sent to the Night Vale branch of the Boy Scouts of America. With any luck they still have it all, but their offices will be closed for the weekend.

Just in case (it is Friday afternoon, after all), he stops at a public Blood Stone Circle, sacrifices a pigeon he caught on the way, and performs the requisite chants to contact the organization. Nothing elaborate, just “This is Earl Harlan, I’m alive again and ready to resume my responsibilities, and by any chance do you still have my clothes?”

No answer. But that’s okay. The BSA-NV will get the message first thing Monday morning.

He digs through the pockets of his purple slacks and fishes out Diego’s card. It’s simple but classy, with his name, number and the StrexCorp logo printed in gold leaf. On the back, written in pen, is an address— the home of an employee from the Night Vale branch, who should be able to lend him a couch to sleep on while he gets resituated.

These guys think of everything.

The address is in the Desert Creek housing development, and so he decides to walk— It’s not too far, and besides, he’d rather not call Diego for another ride. The man from Strex has been doing him an uncomfortable amount of favors already, and Earl doesn’t want to feel any more indebted than he already is.

The house is nice— a small, comfortable two-story number with a fresh coat of paint. The well-trimmed lawn begins singing a Beatles medley as he crosses the front walk. Earl knocks to the beat of “Paperback Writer” when the door opens.

The air rushes out of his lungs. The back of his neck flushes hot.

Cecil. Cecil, beautiful Cecil, stands framed in the door. His eyes are wide, his brows raised in surprise, his mouth slightly parted. For a moment Earl can’t tear his eyes off those lips, but now they’re moving, forming words.

“Earl?” The sound of his voice makes Earl shiver.

“Hi, Cecil.” It’s like being a kid all over again, fumbling to string together enough syllables to form a sentence, but two words is a good start.

“You’re back.”

“Yeah!” He tries to form more words, but his head is spinning and his knees haven’t wobbled this much since he was a teenager. He dearly hopes that all the Scouts in Night Vale have gone temporarily blind, because he’s about ready to swoon.

An arm sweeps around his back, and the next thing he knows he’s flush against Cecil’s chest, being pulled into the pleasant chill of an air-conditioned house, and did Cecil always smell so good?

Unconsciously his fingers tangle in Cecil’s shirt. He should be humiliated, but he can’t stifle the needy sound in the back of his throat.

“It’s okay, Earl,” Cecil murmurs, and Earl can feel it resonating in his bones. “I’ve got you.”

Not long enough, though, before Earl is lowered onto the soft upholstery of a couch, and a glass of water is being pressed to his lips. He would complain— what is it with people force-feeding him beverages lately, anyway?— but that might remove the steady hand that’s pressed against the back of his head and tangled, just slightly, in his hair.

“Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” Cecil asks.

“I’m fine.” Earl tries to sit up to prove it. “Fine. Just dizzy. I guess I forgot how hot it can be out this time of day.”

That gets Cecil to raise an eyebrow. “Really? Where have you been all this time?”

For a moment Earl considers lying, or changing the subject, or trying to explain. Instead he settles on the truth.

“Incorporeal,” he says. “I got better.” Scouts above, he’s going to die of awkwardness. He fidgets, his eyes sweeping the room. It’s a nice place, really. Tastefully decorated, but a bit spare. Which makes sense, because Earl hasn’t been gone all that long— most likely Cecil only moved here recently.

But then his eyes pass a flash of white hanging from a hook by the door. A lab coat.

His heart drops to his knees. “You know what? I’m feeling better now. I should get going.” He pushes himself off the couch and starts for the door, but Cecil reaches out, viper-quick, and grabs him by the wrist.

“Earl, wait.”

It’s hard to pull away when he feels like his whole arm is sparking with electricity. Dammit, Harlan, grow up already. You know how to handle this. You’ve been handling it since high school. So handle it already.

Oh, there are parts of Cecil he’d just _love_ to handle.

He flushes scarlet.

“I’m sorry, Cecil,” he says. “This was a mistake. I need to go.”

“Go where?” Cecil demands. “Your apartment’s been rented out for months now.”

Damn you and your connections. “I’ll figure something out.”

“And you’ll only wind up giving yourself heat stroke. You only just got back and you look ready to drop dead.”

“I told you, I’m fine!” Earl tries to yank his arm out of Cecil’s grip, but he only succeeds in pulling him closer. It’s too much. Too close. His face is too red, his blood pumping too hard.

“Damn it, Earl Harlan, stop being such an ass and let me take care of you!”

And Masters above, Earl’s wanted to hear those words out of his mouth for so long. His head is spinning, his heart is racing, he can barely see straight— all he knows is that Cecil is right in front of him and grabbing him and he’s still out of reach.

So Earl does the only thing he can think of.

He yanks his hand back, dragging Cecil to stumble into his arms. And it feels so good to have him there, so good to hold hold him like this, so good to press his lips to Cecil’s and finally taste that sweet, sweet mouth.

He doesn’t even have the time to feel properly guilty before his legs give out and the world goes dark.


	3. Armed and ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, Carlos...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Pat Benatar's Promises in the Dark

Tamika and her army don’t need adult supervision. They don’t. They’re armed, they’re ruthless, and Carlos is pretty sure they’re as well trained as most Special Ops teams by sheer virtue of surviving childhood in Night Vale.

But he can’t get over the fact that most of them aren’t even fifteen, and some of them are shorter than the weapons they’re lugging around. So while Carlos isn’t going to act like a voice of authority (Teddy Williams tried that once, and he’s still in recovery), he’s at least going to routinely check up on the kids, make sure they’re well-fed and well-supplied. He’s earned enough trust to be called in for emergencies-- training accidents and combat injuries, mostly, though occasionally he’s called in for a case of pest control.

The Library is an excellent base of operations, with its huge rooms and its labyrinthine halls, and the secret entrances and exits that only a select few adults can operate. Tamika and her army destroyed the Library’s monstrous keepers when they escaped the Summer Reading Program, but every so often they stumble across a latent nest that hasn’t yet hatched, their eggs veiny and swollen. The shells are too hard for even the oldest Advanced Readers to crack, and it’s a waste of childpower to set sentries on the nest.

Luckily, a bit of research demonstrates that the shells are made mostly from calcium and carbon-- easily dissolved in a sufficiently large vat of industrial-strength acid. Exactly the sort of thing that Carlos has in large supply.

Dissolving the eggs is more or less a kind of celebration. The younger kids rush up as close as Carlos has deemed safe (Tamika wards them back with a silent glare), hooting and clapping as the eggshells burst into gushing foam. Inside the fetal Librarian writhes, splashing and shrieking before it finally goes silent. One of the older kids hands him a glass bottle of Coke-- which is passed among the teenagers as though it were beer-- when his phone starts to vibrate: a long buzz, followed by a short one, long and then short again. Morse code for C.

He grabs his phone and glances at Tamika. _Make sure they don’t play in the flesh-eating acid?_

The look she gives him can be summed up as _Bitch, please._

Good enough for him.

He ducks out of the poetry section and answers the call. “Cecil?”

“Hey, Carlos.” Cecil’s voice is higher than normal. Nervous. “How’s science?”

“Fine. I’m collecting a lot of data.”

“Good. Good.” A swallow. “Um… so we have a visitor.”

“Good to know,” Carlos doesn’t let the sudden anxiety show in his voice. “Do you need me to pick up dinner on the way back?”

By ‘dinner,’ he means a company of teenagers and a trunk full of automatic weapons.

“That won’t be necessary,” Cecil says quickly. “It’s-- I’m already cooking. Just-- um-- come home soon.”

“Of course, carino. I’ll be right there.” He waits for Cecil to hang up before he goes back to Tamika.

“I need to get back,” he says. “Something might be up.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“Cecil wasn’t using any of our codes, but he didn’t sound right.”

“I’ll have Jeremy and Leo deal with the acid. Call if you need backup.”

He only gets out a brief “will do” before he’s crawling through the secret tunnels to the lot where he left his car.

He tells himself it’s just another false alarm. There’s been plenty of those lately-- a consequence of constant vigilance-- but past performance is not a predictor of future results. Especially not when you’re dealing with StrexCorp.

The singing grass indicates there’s been a stranger by recently, and his pulse ratchets up a couple more notches. One hand sweeps behind his back to the shoulder holster concealed by his lab coat, as the grass starts singing Science and Faith-- the song that announces his arrival home. His heart is pounding to the beat as he pushes open the door. It swings open without resistance.

“Carlos! You’re here!” Cecil’s bounding toward him. His hair is mussed, but he looks unhurt-- just anxious.

“What happened?” Carlos lowers his hands from the gun. “What’s wrong?”

And just like that, Cecil stops in his tracks. “Oh. Um. That. Well. I didn’t mean to worry you.” His hands-- as expressive as his voice-- are fluttering nervously in his orbit. “It’s-- um--”

“Cecil.” He steps closer, crowding into Cecil’s space, and Cecil retreats a step. That’s not good. “What is it?”

“We have… company.” Cecil points over Carlos’ shoulder at the couch. The occupied couch. Draped across it is a pale man with a swath of freckles and a shock of absurdly red hair-- and an expensive, fitted suit. Carlos would be reaching for his piece again, but the stranger is already unconscious. “Carlos, this is Earl Harlan.”

“Earl Harlan?” Carlos turns back to his boyfriend. “You mean Scoutmaster Earl Harlan?”

“Yeah.”

“The one who got taken by those creepy children?”

“Well, it looks like he got out.” There it is again. That nervous note in his voice. That, more than anything else, makes Carlos ask for one last piece of clarification.

“You mean the one who was in love with you?”

Cecil clears his throat. “About that. I think he’s sick. He collapsed twice when he got there, and I’m pretty sure he was delirious before he passed out.”

It’s an excuse if Carlos ever heard one-- the question is, what is it an excuse _for_?

Cecil fidgets under his gaze, and then it comes out all at once: “Earl kissed me.”

A couple of years ago, that might have made Carlos ball up his fists and get angry. Maybe even vindictive. But there’s a war on, he just dissolved a man-eating monster in a vat of acid in front of preteens, and the subject of his anger is already unconscious.

So he does what a scientist does best: step back, detach, and gather data.

“He kissed you,” he repeats, and even science can’t keep the edge out of his voice.

“Like I said, I think he was delirious,” Cecil says quickly. And then, “I didn’t kiss him back!”

Thank God.

But he’s in a scientific track now, and his mind moves on to the next order of business: if Earl is sick, then he may be contagious-- and that means Cecil may be infected. Suddenly their living room is a de facto quarantine zone and he’s gathering blood and saliva samples from Cecil and Earl both.

Cecil is the priority. Make sure Earl didn’t pass on whatever contagion he’s carrying, and then he can move on to analyzing the grabby Scoutmaster.

“I’ll run the tests as fast as I can,” he says, cupping Cecil’s cheek with a gloved hand. “I promise, Cecil, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

And then he flees into the known quantity that is the basement lab.

He throws himself into the science of it, into microscopes and mutagens and testing for chemical markers, because it’s easier than thinking about other things. Like how Earl walked into certain death while professing his love for Cecil. Like how he stole a kiss that may or may not have been wanted or returned. Like how the two of them are alone together right now. How Earl might possibly be dying again-- and Cecil with him.

So he removes himself from everything he can’t control, and gives himself entirely over to petri dishes and test tubes, because it’s the only way he can stay sane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing gets me stoked to write another chapter quite like feedback! If you have a moment, please leave a comment!


	4. A brush with the Devil can clear your mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earl wakes up feeling decidedly Not Normal. Awkwardness ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Whispers in the Dark by Mumford and Sons

Earl wakes to the icy sting of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He’s pretty sure he just had a nightmare, though it’s gone before he can remember what it was about.

It’s dark-- not the shattering void-and-stars dark of camping in the desert, but still dim enough that it’s difficult to see. He’s sprawled across something too firm and misshapen to be a mattress, but too soft to be the floor. A couch, then. A very nice-smelling couch, honestly. He takes a deep breath and inhales the scent of ozone and petrichor and lavender chewing gum, which makes his mind fuzz and his cheeks warm in the nicest way.

He must have slept at an awkward angle, because his neck is stiff and sore when he sits up.

“Oh, you’re awake!”  

He freezes, half-crouched over the couch.

The light of the streetlamps filters through the curtains and offers dim illumination. Not enough to make out details, but enough that he suddenly can’t miss Cecil sitting crosslegged in the nearest armchair. And watching him sleep, like the character from that one book that Earl totally never read because the City Council revoked its approval.

Earl’s face goes hot, and he’s absurdly grateful for the cover of darkness.

“Oh. Yes. I’m awake.” Is it physically possible to get any more awkward?

But Cecil just smiles, bright enough that it’s visible even in the half-light. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yes. I mean, I wasn’t feeling horrible to start with or anything, so I guess not much better than I was before, but I’m not unconscious now, so that’s something…” Why is he rambling like this? He’s a Scoutmaster, for Spire’s sake! A respected member of the community! He shouldn’t be stuttering and fumbling like a Cub Scout with his first crush! He needs to pull himself together-- but it’s almost unbearable now. All he wants to do is reach out and touch Cecil. And he could, too. Just extend his arm, lean over a couple of inches… Dear Masters, his hands are practically itching with need.

“Carlos thinks it might be dehydration. But he’s testing you for other symptoms, just to be safe. By the way, he wanted to know if he had your permission, if you woke up before he got back.”

If there’s a faster mood-killer, Earl hasn’t heard of it. All at once he retreats into himself. _Way to be an idiot, Harlan. You’re real smooth._

“Sure. Thanks,” he says as Cecil presses a bottle of water into his hand. Sparks rush up his arms when their fingers touch, and it’s driving Earl insane. “So… um. You and Carlos. When did that happen?” He unscrews the cap as fast as possible and brings it to his mouth as soon as he’s done talking, so the bottle can hide his expression.

“Our six months’ was a little bit ago,” Cecil says.

Earl almost chokes on the water.

_Come on, Harlan. Don’t be a creep about this. He was your best friend-- the least you can do is be happy for him._

“Congrats.” His smile almost feels genuine, but he can’t ignore the heat rising in his cheeks again. “I’m really glad you two figured it out. That’s nifty.”

He tries to look around the dark room, but his eyes keep getting drawn to Cecil, to the way the light of the street lamp is reflecting off his face, bathing him in a golden glow. It makes his skin look so velvety and soft. He wants to see if it feels as good as it--

For the love of the BSA, he’s in a committed relationship! Cecil’s the opposite of available right now! So why can’t his mind just get out of the damn gutter for five freaking minutes?

He needs to get out of here. Fast.

“Thank you for the water, but I’m feeling a lot better now,” he says quickly. “And it’s already late, so I really should--”

“Hold it, tough guy.” Cecil grabs him by the wrist before Earl can make his mad dash to freedom. He might as well have tapped him with a cattle prod. Earl’s trapped in place. “That’s what you said last time, and you wound up passing out ten seconds later.”

_Last time…?_

Oh.

 **OH**.

That wasn’t a pleasant dream, or a vivid fantasy. That actually happened. He actually kissed Cecil.

_Oh Masters of us all, what did I do?_

“I should definitely go.” He tries to yank out of Cecil’s grip, but the radio host just winds up following him back to the door. Suddenly he’s hit with deja vu-- it was just like this the last time. Vaguely he wonders if he can get another kiss out of the deal.

_No. Wait. That’s bad. Don’t go kissing the not-single guy._

He turns to the door, but Cecil’s already blocking his way. “Earl, you’re officially under quarantine until Carlos can figure out what’s wrong with you.”

“Quarantine?” Oh, thank the Masters. “When are the Sheriff’s Secret Police going to get here?” At least in the Abandoned Mineshaft at the edge of town, he won’t have to deal with all this damned temptation.

“They’re not coming. We’re keeping you here.”

_Oh, for the love of--!_

_Fine. You know what? **Fine**._ He’s a godsdamned Scoutmaster for a reason. He can handle himself in a crisis. Even if that includes being locked in the same house with his totally unavailable childhood crush who’s so hot he practically glows in the dark and smells like desert rain and--

_Focus, Harlan._

“If I’m going to be here a while, do you mind if I make a phone call?”

Less than five minutes later he’s set up the emergency barricades inside the bathroom, jury-rigged a decent noise-cancelling field to keep Cecil from overhearing (Advanced Spycraft badge back when he was working toward Weird Scout), and whipped out his cell phone.

Diego picks up on the third ring.

“Earl,” he says, smooth as aged cognac. “Checking in so soon?”

And he owes him and all, but Earl really doesn’t have the nerves for manners right now. “You sent me to Cecil’s house on purpose!”

“What can I say?” Gods, he can hear the shrug in his voice. “I’m a bit of a romantic.”

 _Sure, if by ‘romance’ you mean ‘wanting to rip off your childhood best friend’s clothes and fuck him into the couch’._ Earl chokes back a strangled laugh.

“Listen, I appreciate all of your help, but I don’t need you playing matchmaker for me. I can blow my chances with Cecil just fine without your help.”

“What makes you think so little of yourself?” Diego asks.

“Oh, I don’t know, the fact that he’s living with his long-term boyfriend, maybe?”

“Is he still with the scientist?” Not or ‘beautiful Carlos’ or ‘Carlos, perfect of form and taut’ or ‘that handsome boy Cecil keeps going on about’. Just ‘the scientist,’ like his name isn’t even worth remembering. Earl’s gotta admit, it’s kinda nice. “No need to worry about them. They won’t last.”

“They just celebrated their six months’ anniversary,” Earl points out dryly. “And Cecil was mooning over him and his stupid perfect hair for at least a year before then.”

Diego makes a sound that would be called a snort if it came from anybody else. “Nonsense. He might have looks on his side, but you have will. You clawed your way out of oblivion for Cecil. Don’t think that’s meaningless.”

Earl scrubs his hand down his face. He shouldn’t feel better for hearing that. He’s not that kind of guy, honest. “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” he says. “But… yeah. Um. I should let you know. I think I’m sick. They’ve got me in quarantine right now.” Gods, this is awkward. “You might want to have your scientists make sure you’re okay,” he says, because he refuses to say ‘you should get yourself tested’.

“You’re feeling ill? How so?”

He fidgets. “I’ve been passing out. I’m having trouble staying focused--” on anything but Cecil, that is, “-- and, I don’t know, I’m just really out of it. It’s just… weird.”

“Not particularly,” Diego muses. “You were only recently recorporealized, after all. And since then you’ve spent almost all your time in strictly climate-controlled conditions. I imagine your body is having some difficulty acclimating to a new environment and unfamiliar stimulus. Give it time, and you will adjust.”

“Really?” Oh, thank the Spire. “You sure there’s nothing wrong with me?”

“Our scientists already ran a thorough diagnostic on your system. You have nothing to worry about. Now go back to your friend. Enjoy your time together.”


	5. You put up your guard and you try to be hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos is not a jealous guy. Nope. Not at all. No jealousy here, nosiree.

Carlos is a man of science. More than that, he is comfortable and confident in his sexuality, his masculinity, and his relationship with Cecil. So there is absolutely no logical reason for him to feel threatened by the man who is currently snoring on his couch. Nor is there any reason to get upset by the fact that Cecil’s head is on said man’s lap.

Anyone with an even slightly analytical brain can see it’s innocent. They’re lit by the glow of an endlessly-repeating DVD menu. Earl is slumped to one side, his head lolled back, while Cecil is nestled against him with his glasses slightly askew. In fact, if they were any two other people, Carlos would probably deem the image adorable.

Instead he has to retreat into the kitchen while his breathing slows and his blood pressure returns to a healthy range.

It’s perfectly innocent. Nothing is going on. In fact, Carlos flat-out told Cecil to stay there, to reduce the risk of contamination. Why wouldn’t he pop in a movie? What the hell else were they supposed to do until-- a quick glance at the microwave-- three in the morning?

It’s not like Earl Harlan is built like a freckled Adonis or anything, what with all that psychotically dangerous stuff the Scouts do in this town. Every Christmas there’s a push for all the Scouts to get a freakin’ bear wrestling merit badge! And three guesses who taught it, before his romantically tragic disappearance!

Hell, before Carlos came around, Cecil probably filled spare airtime with editorials about how _brave_ Earl was and how _rugged_ he was and how _firm his_ muscles were and--

Carlos scrubs a hand across his face. “Dear Darwin, I’m an asshole.”

This isn’t right and it isn’t fair-- to anybody involved-- and he needs to get over himself before he says something he can’t take back.

After a few last calming breaths, he returns to the living room. That position can’t be comfortable for either of them, and Cecil’s definitely going to be stiff and sore in the morning. The radio host has an amazingly high tolerance for… just about anything, really… but the tradeoff is that he whines about the smallest discomforts like it’s the end of the world.

That decides it. Carlos is going to wake them-- and not out of petty jealousy, either. He leans against the empty door frame that divides the kitchen and living room and raps against the wall. Earl wakes first: his eyes snap open and he curls protectively around Cecil, all coiled muscle and laser focus. In his lap, Cecil shifts and scrunches like a napping kitten, mumbling incoherently as he rises out of sleep, and Carlos is immediately struck by the need to curl up with him and kiss his forehead. He’s amazed the City Council hasn’t passed a law against being that adorable.

A flick of the remote, and the TV finally goes dark.

“The tests are in,” he says, and two pairs of eyes become suddenly alert (or as alert as Cecil can possibly get before coffee). “I’ve checked for everything I can think of, and invented a few things besides. You’re both perfectly fine.”

Screw jealousy. Any doubt Carlos might have had evaporates when Cecil bounds into his arms, lavishing praises on him and his big, sciencey brain. In fact, it’s that lack of doubt that lets him glance at Earl over Cecil’s shoulder and feel a twinge of sympathy. The Scoutmaster’s eyes are averted, his shoulders tense, and a forced smile is plastered across his face.

Carlos kisses Cecil’s forehead and eases him into a less intimate distance. “Did the two of you get anything to eat since I was last up here?”

“The Faceless Old Woman made us some popcorn.” Cecil points to an empty movie-sized bucket, which is emblazoned with a ‘Vote FOWWSLIYH’ sticker. Classy.

Carlos, for his part, hasn’t had anything to eat or drink since that Coke at the Library. He tends to forget about things like that when he’s doing science-- even more so when he’s trying hard not to think about anything else. Now that the drive for discovery has subsided he’s starving, and way too tired to remember the proper chants for the stove, which is hard of hearing to begin with. His car is far less likely to turn on him in his sleep-deprived state. It flashes its headlights eagerly when they stagger into the garage, and practically purrs when he pets the dashboard.

“No long joyrides tonight,” he tells the Hybrid Coupe. “We’re just making a food run.” The Coupe gives a disappointed flash of its windshield wipers, but revs to life anyway.

Carlos has to admit, he was a bit concerned when he noticed his car coming to life, but now he can’t imagine driving the old way. The Coupe pays attention to the road even when Carlos is lost in thought or can’t see straight from exhaustion (and that one time he drank to forget and forgot not to get behind the wheel afterward), and it never flashes the check engine light unless something’s actually wrong. Okay, so sometimes it tries to race the phantom cars on the highway, but usually a quick swat to the steering wheel reminds it to slow down.

Tonight it’s especially well-behaved-- it’s no secret the Coupe likes the cherry red convertible that hangs out at the Moonlite All-Nite Diner, and Carlos is fine letting it socialize as long as it doesn’t run off and leave him stranded. It’s kind of sweet, actually.

Dinner (breakfast?) is actually not as awkward as it could be. Earl isn’t exactly eager to talk about where he’s been, but there’s still plenty to talk about-- the upcoming mayoral elections, the brief war with the Tiny City Under Lane Five, news on how Dana’s been doing since she got trapped in the Dog Park, that sort of thing. There’s enough subjects to keep the conversation far away from StrexCorp’s invasion or Tamika Flynn’s resistance, even when the waitress drops an origami cactus into Cecil’s lap as she’s refilling their drinks, or when a large brown fly buzzes into Cecil’s shirt pocket carrying a piece of tissue paper rolled so tight it almost looks like a matchstick. Earl doesn’t ask, but his gaze flits suspiciously between Carlos and Cecil.

It’s too much to hope that his silence will keep up forever.

Cecil reads the notes in the car on their way home, by the light of the glove compartment, and Carlos grips the steering wheel so tight that the Coupe whines in protest. Carlos has to remind himself that he’s being stupid again. Cecil has to memorize and destroy the notes as fast as possible, before the SSP has a chance to pull them over and search the car in one of their bogus ‘random wheat-and-wheat-byproduct’ raids. Even if Earl can see exactly what he’s doing, there’s no way he can read the tiny script in that dim light, so he won’t know anything worth betraying.

Carlos isn’t going to be a complete dick about it, though. When they get home he fishes around the linen closet (damn, he hasn’t had one of those since he was living with his parents) for spare pillows and blankets for Earl. Meanwhile Cecil digs through the closet. Earl’s taller and broader than either of them, but Cecil’s got an oversized Scorpions jersey and some sweats that Earl insists will fit him well enough. It’s bound to be an improvement over sleeping in that rumpled suit again.

The two of them are far away from windows, with the dense padding of fabric to muffle stray audio. That makes this as good a time as any.

“You sure it was safe to do that where Earl could see?” Carlos asks, leaning close to the closet, just in case.

He doesn’t need to specify; Cecil bristles just the same. “Of course I am. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“The suit, for starters,” Carlos mutters. “Listen, I’m not accusing him of anything. I’m just saying we need to be careful.” Sweet Einstein, this has the potential to get ugly fast. So he drops logic, he drops reason, and he even lets petty jealousy slide down his slumping shoulders. “I’m worried about you, Cecil. You’re taking enough risks just doing these broadcasts-- I don’t want you putting yourself in any more danger than is absolutely necessary. Please. For me.”

The ire melts from Cecil’s face like gallium over a flame, leaving behind tender surprise. “Carlos. Beautiful Carlos.” Cecil pulls him close and tips their foreheads together, weaving his fingers into Carlos’ hair. “I’ve known Earl all my life. We’ve been best friends since we were children. If there’s anybody I trust as much as I trust you, it’s him.” A gentle, wry smile brushes his lips. “And even if I didn’t, I don’t think it’d make much difference. He taught me at least half the tricks I know, and almost all the codes. Trying to hide all that from him would only make him--” He doesn’t get much farther before Carlos pins him to the wall with a kiss. And not a modest one, either, but open-mouthed and intense. He only pulls back when he feels Cecil’s knees buckle and he’s leaning on Carlos’ shoulders for support.

“Cecil, you’re a genius, you know that?”

The radio host offers a dizzy giggle. “Well, I _am_ very into science these days…”


	6. Our love will be a private place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this is where we start careening into the meat of the story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Whisper in the Dark by Dionne Warwick

Cecil can be a bit of a doofus sometimes. It’s not a bad quality in him-- if anything, Earl finds it endearing-- but there are times when he suspects that common sense isn’t quite as common where the radio host is concerned.

For example, if you’re going to drag a guy to your bedroom, shove him inside your walk-in closet, and barricade the door with a shoe organizer, the mood of the hour probably shouldn’t be ‘casual conversation’.

But here they are, Earl massaging his wrist and Cecil looking as keen and bright-eyed as he might during a radio interview.

“So. Earl. I’m curious-- you don’t happen to have any plans for the immediate future, do you?”

That question is so loaded he could take it to a firing range.

“Immediate as in… what, exactly?” he asks.

“Well, the last time I asked, you said you’d figure something out. But of course, you weren’t exactly feeling your best at the time. But I want to know because I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” tumbles out of Earl’s mouth before he can stop himself.

“There’s a war on, Earl,” Cecil says.

“You mean with the Underground City? I thought that was all taken care of.”

“Not that. A different war. It’s… quieter than that one. More insidious.” Cecil’s voice drops into the register he normally uses for the radio. “There’s a corporation out there, and it’s trying to eat Night Vale alive. They’ve taken Old Woman Josie’s angels--”

_“...our corporation recently acquired some assets that were most helpful in counteracting their kind.”_

_“Assets?”_

_“Angels.”_

The memory flares bright as a camera flash, but he can barely grasp it before he’s distracted by sharp pain in his neck. By the time he blinks away the discomfort, the memory is gone.

“--are fighting back. Some of your Scouts are with them, Earl.” Gods, he loves the way Cecil says his name. “You’ve taught them well-- Carlos tells me they’re a good part of the reason the Advanced Readers haven’t been caught yet. But there’s still more you can teach them. I’ve never met anybody who could survive quite like you.”

Another pleasant shiver runs down Earl’s spine-- a sweet contrast to the rising temperatures inside this closet. The space is too cramped for two bodies and an incandescent light. He struggles to focus on the words being said, and not just the mouth they’re coming from.

“Sorry-- you want me to teach the Scouts?”

“All of the Advanced Readers. The whole army, if you can manage it. They’ve got a secret hideout where you could stay. I don’t know how it would compare with our couch, but Carlos says it looks like they’re camping.”

Why the heck does he have to keep bringing up Carlos? It was bad enough hearing their makeout session last night; does he have to be a part every conversation, too? But maybe he does-- Carlos is Cecil’s boyfriend, after all. They have a right to be intimate in their own home.

Maybe this is a way out. So he doesn’t have to be so mouth-wateringly close to Cecil all the time. Maybe it’ll be easier, being away and having something else to focus on.

“That sounds nice. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good camp-out.”

“Neat!” Cecil’s face breaks into a smile, and Earl’s stomach does a flip. “I think you’ll like Tamika. She’s a remarkable young woman. You know, not too long ago she brought down one of those damn yellow helicopters on her own. With a slingshot!”

Wait. That can’t be right. Earl’s seen yellow helicopters. Just a few days ago, before Diego’s scientists cleared him to go back to Night Vale, he saw one land on the helipad with the great big S...

He doesn’t realize how fuzzy his mind has gotten until the sharp pain draws him out of it. The single incandescent bulb blazes sun-bright overhead, but its light doesn’t reach the forest of clothes on every side. Just Cecil. Earl can see every detail of his friend’s face like it’s being presented in IMAX-- every angle, every curve, every bead of sweat in this unnatural heat.

What would it be like, making him sweat like that?

“Uh… Earl?” It takes the Scoutmaster a moment to realize he can feel that sonorous voice in his fingertips. He’s cupping Cecil’s face in his hands. When did that happen?

He wants to pull away, but the draw of Cecil’s skin is almost magnetic. He struggles for some excuse, but all he can think of is “I’m not feeling well” and “I don’t know what came over me” -- both of which are lies. Carlos has already scientifically proven that he’s fine, and Earl knows exactly what’s wrong with him.

“I’m sorry,” he says instead, and his voice is almost a whisper. “Cecil-- if things were different-- if I hadn’t left and you weren’t with him--” Dear Masters, he can’t even say his name. “Do you think you and I--”

 _Dear Masters, say something,_ he begs silently, but Cecil is utterly still and silent as the Sand Wastes.

Even a ‘no’ would be better than this. At least that would kill that floundering hope once and for all, and maybe Earl could put all of this stupid useless pining behind him. Maybe he could get on with his life, instead of this. But Cecil’s still just standing there, staring at him, his face unreadable.

This time, when Earl moves forward, it’s slowly. He’s wary, watching every moment for signs of rejection. Their mouths meet. Cecil’s lips are velvet-soft against his.

Earl’s hand rises against Cecil’s cheek, and he traces the other man’s hair, savoring the feel of each silky strand beneath his fingertips.

He isn’t sure how long it lasts. An eternity, maybe, but not long enough before Cecil finally pulls away.

“Things aren’t different, though,” he says.

His voice is gentle, his tone not unkind.

It still rips through Earl like a cannonball.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is twice as long as this one, and it'll be up within the next couple of days, I promise.


	7. Just when you think you've got it down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Are you listening to the radio right now?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Promises in the Dark" by Pat Benatar

In hindsight, Earl really could have planned that discussion more carefully. When he’d agreed to join Tamika Flynn and her army of underage soldiers, he’d expected to move into her secret bunker within a few hours. Maybe even a few days. ‘Within the next couple of weeks’ is not the timetable he had in mind.

His days are divided between different varieties of uncomfortable. When Cecil and Carlos are home, he’s the invader who stole their living room, taking up their space and constantly on display. When they aren’t, he wanders alone through an empty house that feels much bigger than it has any right to, trespassing across the evidence of them. Everywhere he looks he can find Cecil’s goofy knickknacks and Carlos’ spare goggles and test tubes. There’s even a sample of bismuth, all right angles and bright colors, banging petulantly at the bell jar under which it’s restrained.

The hardest moments are the ones when Cecil is at home alone, and Earl finds himself led to the closet for yet another chat. He understands Cecil needs these moments-- thanks to the tight scrutiny he’s under, his conversations with the rest of the world are limited to secret notes and coded messages. He needs the chance to vent before he faces the scrutiny of his new supervisors, and Earl is more than happy to help.

And okay, so maybe he’s a little miffed at how not-bothered Cecil is by their proximity. There’s no awkwardness from Cecil at all; he just goes on like they did when they were kids, apparently oblivious to Earl’s lingering stares. Earl tries not to stare-- he really does-- but it’s hard when the whole closet smells of Cecil, when the air is so warm and Cecil is so close and all he has to do is reach out and touch him. It’s a good thing these talks are more for Cecil’s benefit than his own, because most days Earl can barely retain a few scraps of information by the time he’s released from the smothering tension of the closet.

He’s in the middle of washing the evidence of the said tension down the shower drain when he hears a door slam downstairs, and he turns off the tap for a better listen. Cecil can’t be back already, can he?

He towels off and dresses as quietly as possible-- he doesn’t want Cecil to find out about his post-closet showers, because _he’ll know-_ \- and opens the door to sneak out of sight. But the footsteps moving in through the door aren’t Cecil’s. Earl is familiar enough with the house that he can track the movement through sound: from the front door to the coat hook, the rustle of a lab coat being shed, the clop of shoes removed and set on their mat, the clink of loose change in the familiar tin. The footsteps are louder than usual, slower, dragged by the weight of frustration.

A raised voice: “Earl? Are you here?”

One final scrub of the towel over his hair, and Earl moves down the stairs. “Carlos. You’re home early.”

_When did I start talking like a housewife?_

_Probably around the time I started spending all my time in somebody else’s house._

“There was an incident at the lab. Had to evacuate the whole thing until the HazMat team finishes their cleanup. Have you eaten? I got Big Rico’s.”

“Thanks.” A few more steps and Carlos is in view. He looks about as awful as he sounds. A few chemical burns have eaten through his lab coat and left holes in his clothes, and his hair is frizzy from a recent shower of his own. “Must have been one hell of an accident.”

“There was nothing accidental about it,” Carlos mutters bitterly. He doesn’t need to elaborate: Earl’s heard enough complaints about The Enemy to recognize their handiwork.

The pizza is good, meat lovers on top of a crisp, gluten-free crust, with extra sandworm. Just the way Earl likes it. The unexpected thoughtfulness of the gesture makes Earl pause.

“Do you know how long you’ll be out of the lab?” he asks.

“A few days at least,” Carlos says, grabbing a slice of his own and blotting out the extra grease with a napkin. “Sorry, Earl. Looks like the apartment hunt is going to have to be pushed back a bit while this all gets cleared up.”

Earl nods. The Enemy wouldn’t have made this move by accident. They’ll probably be keeping an eye on Carlos for a while. It’ll be too dangerous to move to the Advanced Readers’ secret base until their attention has shifted.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m just sorry to put you guys out for so long.”

“It’s fine.”

Most of their conversations go that way: bland, vague, noncommittal, with a few fragments of coded information threaded in between. And honestly, it’s about time that changed.

“I wanted to thank you,” Earl says, after he’s swallowed the last of his pizza crust.

Carlos waves him away like he’s so much smoke. “Don’t worry about it, it’s--”

“Not just for letting me stay here,” Earl says quickly. “For taking care of Cecil.”

The scientist goes silent.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s a survivor-- he wouldn’t have lived through being a radio intern otherwise-- but it’s still a dangerous world out there. I’m glad he’s got you watching his back.” Earl grabs another slice and tears off the crust, just for the sake of doing something with his hands. “I’ve known him a long time, Carlos. So… just… know that I know what I’m talking about when I say he’s… softer, and sweeter than he used to be. Not as sarcastic. He’s happy, I think. Happier than I’ve ever seen him. And you’re the one who makes him that way. I don’t think there’s anybody else who could.”

The moment stretches out into a long silence, and Earl fills it by folding his de-crusted pizza in half and stuffing it in his mouth.

Finally Carlos speaks: “I don’t know whether I should say ‘thank you’ or ‘you’re welcome’.”

And for some reason, that does it. Earl snorts so hard cheese goes up his nose, which makes Carlos laugh, and for the first time since he arrived, the tension is gone. The man sitting beside him isn’t a rival, or a usurper, or an outsider, or a painful reminder-- he might just be a friend.

“Cecil’s the one who’s good with words, not me,” Carlos admits. “I have no idea how he does it.”

“Years of practice.” Earl gives a sage nod. “You should have seen him as a kid.” And suddenly they’re sharing stories-- the way Cecil tried to talk them out of a citation when they were fourteen and accidentally got them put in quarantine for a week, the way Cecil got absurdly speechless and tongue-tied during the first of his and Carlos’ dates-- only to expound upon them at length on the radio, apparently oblivious that anyone could hear.

Carlos is in the middle of gushing about his horrifically embarrassing first date ideas (“let’s do science on trees! Seriously!”) when his phone buzzes: a single long buzz, a silence, two more long and then one short. Earl recognizes the morse code in an instant: TF.

Carlos’ face goes stern, and he pulls out his phone.

“Is everything all right?” Earl asks quietly.

Carlos shows him the text: **Are you listening to the radio?**

A few long strides take the scientist to the entertainment center and he flicks it on, recoiling as a familiar voice washes through the speakers.

Earl only frowns. “Since when do you listen to the Desert Bluffs station?”

“We don’t.”

Sure enough, the reports are of local news. The Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex has encased Lane Five in glass. Hiram McDaniels and the Faceless Old Woman are slinging proverbial mud at one another. Simone Rigadeau is posting a ‘lost pet’ alert for one of her tin cans.

But the cheerful voice that presents it is the same one that Earl heard every day before he was returned to Night Vale. Kevin, if he remembers right.

Carlos’ phone starts buzzing again, and he pulls it open to answer another text, but he barely unlocks the screen before it buzzes again: another text. Another. Another. They’re coming in so fast that the phone freezes and shuts down from the overload.

Kevin’s voice seems to come in louder in the sudden absence.

“Our friends and employers at StrexCorp would like to issue a brief bulletin to all you listeners out in Night Vale: don’t be alarmed by the yellow helicopters. They will not harm you. They’re just coming to pick up some lucky citizens for a special surprise. There will even be cake! Isn’t that swell, listeners? Remember, if StrexCorp employees come by asking about your loved ones, be sure to point them in the right direction with a big smile. Everyone loves cake!” His voice lowers, somehow both beaming and conspiratorial. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, listeners. Our Cecil is off enjoying some right now, that lucky dog. But it’s his loss-- it’s always such a pleasure to visit Night Vale.”

StrexCorp. Oh, thank the Masters. Maybe he’s okay.

Carlos is swaying on his feet. His face is ashen, his eyes glazed and distant, like he’s staring into the memory of a battlefield. Earl grabs him around the shoulder to steady him, flicking the radio back into silence.

“It’s okay,” he says softly, easing Carlos onto the couch. “Everything’s going to be okay. Cecil’s going to be fine. Just… sit there. I’ll get you something to drink.” He drapes his blanket over Carlos’ shoulders, just to be safe.

He knows Carlos is careful about Cecil, but this is Strex. They’re safe.

Unless Carlos thinks the message wasn’t from Strex at all? Maybe the message was a fake?

Only one way to find out.

He starts the coffee maker and yanks out his own phone, dialing Diego’s number.

No answer.

Again. No answer.

Five calls in a row, all fruitless. Dammit, is he in a meeting or something?

A different approach, then. Earl switches to text.

**I’m sorry to bother you, but this is urgent**

**Do you know anything about the Strex bulletin that just aired on NVCR?**

**Cecil is gone and the bulletin says you have him, is that true?**

**Do you know anything?**

**Please tell me**

**Please**

**Diego?**

**Contact me ASAP please**

He isn’t going to get any further like this. All he can do was wait. Take care of Carlos and wait. By the time he returns to the living room with two cups of coffee, Carlos is staring at his phone, possibly more gray-faced than before. At least the dazed look has left his eyes, but in its place is a cold fire.

“You got your phone working again?” Earl sets the cups on the table beside him.

“Yes.” Carlos’ voice is rough. Quiet.

“Have you found out what’s going on with those texts?”

“Exactly what it said on the radio. They’re taking them. The entire resistance.” He stands up abruptly, ignoring his drink. “They’ll be here soon. We need to go.” With amazing steadiness he crosses the room, grabbing his lab coat off the hook with a graceful sweep before he ducks into the basement. A few seconds he’s back, an unmarked crate in his arms, and jerks his head for Earl to follow him into the garage.

“Anything I can do to help?” the Scoutmaster asks.

“Yeah.” The Coupe groans sleepily as Carlos shoves the crate in the backseat. Dusting off his hands, he unlocks his cell phone and opens a line of texts. “Can you make any sense of these?”

Earl takes the phone from him and frowns at the messages-- all from the same person.

**Get to a safehouse while you can. YH are coming**

“YH. Yellow helicopters?” he guesses.

**They have Tan Jacket.**

**Are you still there?**

_Bumblebee. -C_

“Bumblebee?”

“Don’t worry about that,” Carlos says.

**YH coming. T going 2 meet them**

**T brought 1 down. Come NOW**

**Have YH pilot. Questioning him now**

There’s a rustle of fabric behind Earl, but he ignores it as he scrolls down to the later messages.

**Pilot says there’s a leak. Won’t say who**

**Talking now**

Earl twists in pain as something sharp digs into his neck with a faint snap. He turns to face Carlos-- who is looking confused and holding a syringe with a broken needle.

His hand goes instinctively to the back of his neck, and he finds the long, thin steel cylinder lodged just under the skin. “Carlos, what the--”

He doesn’t get to finish the question before the scientist buries the broken syringe in his chest.

The world goes abruptly cold and blurry. Earl’s knees buckle under his weight, and he crumples to the oil-stained floor. Before his eyes lose their focus entirely, he glimpses the phone screen, and the last message in the line of texts.

**Found our spy: Earl Harlan**


	8. Blinded by passion, you foolishly let someone in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlos guards the newly captured spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Pat Benatar's Promises in the Dark

Big Rico’s Pizza doesn’t have a basement, it has a maze. It’s the kind of mind-bending labyrinth that only Night Vale can conjure, so complex it’ll make your eyes bleed if you try to draw a map. It’s perfect for wine storage, speakeasies, and hiding members of an anti-corporate resistance.

And their prisoners.

Carlos checks the handcuffs one last time, just to make sure they’re secure. He’s spent enough time with Tamika to know that someone with enough training can find a hundred ways out of restraints if you’re not careful. Earl, according to Cecil, is better trained than anyone he knows-- so they’ve got him spread-eagle on his back, stretched so tight that he’s one good twitch from popping his limbs out of their sockets.

Carlos has seen anthills with fewer bugs in them than the Scoutmaster, each of which he systematically rooted out and destroyed before bringing him down here. There’s only one that’s been giving him trouble, though a quick electric shock managed to fry its circuits. The one that broke the syringe. The mechanism in Earl’s neck.

It’s about the size of a credit card, nestled just under the hairline, deep enough under the skin that it needs to be cut out. One wrong move and Carlos could have severed the man’s spinal column. He could have done it, too, and called it an accident. But Cecil wouldn’t want that. He’d be crushed to know Carlos had done such a thing to his friend, even if he is a traitor. Or else he’d be crushed to know that Carlos had denied him the chance to get revenge himself.

One or the other.

A nauseated groan announces that the sedative is starting to wear off. Carlos finishes bandaging the incision and turns his attention to deactivating the device. The components are small and smeared with blood, and they require special attention to properly study. But it’s hard to focus when he can hear Earl’s breath shortening into panicked gasps-- and then abruptly he catches himself, slows his respiration to a practiced evenness. There’s a rattle of chains as the prisoner tests his restraints, one limb at a time, grunting in pain when he over-extends a joint that’s already stretched to its limit. Finally the sound of hair rustling as he cranes his neck.

“Carlos?” His voice is thick and phlegmy. “Carlos, is that you?”

Carlos doesn’t dignify him with a reply.

“...Diego?”

Is he seriously addressing his contact? Right in front of him? Carlos’ fist tightens around the scalpel. There are too many people taking refuge in these caverns. If Earl tries to call for help, Carlos will open his trachea before the first syllables leave his mouth.

“Where am I?” the prisoner asks. And then, sharper: “Where’s Cecil?”

A proper interrogator would remain utterly quiet. Listen to Earl’s questions and find out exactly what he knows. But Carlos isn’t a proper interrogator, and that question grinds too many raw nerves for him to stay still.

“Gone,” he snaps, finally whirling to face the prisoner. “He’s gone, because of you.”

Earl’s eyes widen. He looks dazed, though that may be an after-effect of the sedative. “I-- I don’t understand.”

Carlos rises from his chair, towering over the ex-Scoutmaster. How many Newtons of force would it take to break his ribs? Less than he can muster with a good kick, he’s sure.

“You sold us out,” he growls. “You sold Cecil out. He thought you were his friend. He trusted you. And you handed him over to _them_.”

“No--Carlos, I don’t know what you’re talking about-- I would never--”

“How much did they pay you?” Carlos snarls. “What the hell could they offer to make you-- was it him you were after? Play their fucking game, and then he’s yours to play with, all drugged out of his mind so he could actually want you?”

Oh, that hurt him. A flinch like that, Carlos might as well have carved into him.

“He called me, you know.” Carlos’ voice drops to a hiss. “Called me to him right away. Told me how you’d _assaulted_ him. I should have thrown you out the second I saw you, but he stuck up for you. Told me how sick you were, how you were out of your head. And it was all just an act, wasn’t it? Just a chance for you to cop a feel while he took pity on you.”

 _And you let it happen_ , whispers a cruel voice in the back of his head. _You knew, and you let it happen anyway._

He can’t blame Cecil for trusting Earl-- that’s just the kind of guy he is. Once he makes a decision he sticks with it, no matter what facts contradict him. That’s why it’s Carlos’ job to be the rational one, to observe the data objectively and follow where it leads.

And he failed. He ignored the evidence in favor of Cecil’s unreliable instincts, because-- because it made Cecil so damn _happy_ , having Earl back. His smiles were so rare ever since StrexCorp took over the station, and suddenly they were back again, supernova bright, and it was so easy to let them blind him to the truth. So easy to tell himself that his doubts were nothing but petty jealousy.

So he welcomed that traitor into his home. Left him alone with Cecil for hours at a time-- Cecil, who more than anything else needed a sympathetic face to talk to. Cecil, who was being slowly crushed under the weight of his own silence. Cecil, who got reeducated more regularly than anyone else in town thanks to his utter inability to keep his mouth shut. And Carlos knew all of that and he knew better and he should have been there to _protect him from it_.

And now Cecil is gone.

Carlos swallows the acid creeping up his throat and returns to his desk without another word. He can grind Earl into powder, he can dissolve him like a fetal Librarian, he can scream himself hoarse, but it won’t bring Cecil back.

So Carlos gets back to disassembling the device. The more they learn about StrexCorp’s capabilities, the better equipped they are to circumvent them. But his hands shake, and a fresh splash of blood falls on the cruor of the mechanism.

He opens his hand, surprised to find the scalpel still there, its blade digging into his palm.

“Shit,” he mutters, moving to the small tap installed in the cavern wall. He cleans and disinfects the wound, perversely grateful for the focus pain brings him, and he’s got it mostly bandaged when he glances back at his prisoner. Wet tracks trail down the sides of Earl’s face, dampening his hair and leaving darkening the floor, but he’s staring at the ceiling like he could chisel a hole through the sandstone.

“It was Strex, wasn’t it?” He breaks the silence so abruptly that Carlos nearly jumps. “They’re the ones who did this.”

“Save it for the interrogator.” Carlos turns his back on him and begins cleaning the blood off the mechanism with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. “I hear he’s a big fan of _The Pit and the Pendulum_.”

“Just tell me how,” Earl says.

“I think I’d rather let him surprise you.”

“If he’s going to cut me up, at least tell me what I did to deserve it.” The handcuffs rattle as he twists. “I remember the text you showed me. If I’m-- if I’m the leak, then I want to know how the hell they did it, because I don’t remember telling them anything. I don’t even remember them asking me anything.”

Carlos applies a micro-screwdriver to the device in an attempt to tune him out, but it isn’t working. “Shut up already. I don’t believe you, and neither will anybody else.”

“I don’t care what you believe,” Earl snaps. “Whatever you think I did, I had no idea I was doing it. And that means I might not be the only one.” His voice lowers. “If you’re going to get Cecil back, you’ll need to make sure there isn’t another leak.”

Carlos glances to the faraday cage in the corner of the room. Inside are the dozens of now-disabled devices he found on Earl: microphones sewn into the seams of his suit, tracking chips in the soles of his shoes, even an RFID hidden between layers of cardstock in a StrexCorp business card. And of course, that isn’t counting the microphone and GPS enabled in his phone-- the Coupe ran it over a few times, just to be certain it was entirely destroyed.

Carefully Carlos pulls out his own phone, careful to keep it out of Earl’s line of sight, and texts a message that the others start searching for hidden bugs.

“You had a StrexCorp business card,” he says. “You were wearing one of their suits.”

“Of course I was-- I was naked when they brought me back. I thought they were being nice.”

“Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” Carlos asks. “A hugely powerful and grossly unethical megacorporation magically brings you back from the dead, and you didn’t think to ask any questions?”

“Have you ever been recorporealized? It’s kind of disorienting. And since when is wearing a suit a crime?”

“Since it’s laced with more listening devices than an SSP outlet store, for one.”

That shuts Earl up.

Okay, so admittedly, a part of Carlos wants to start asking more questions about the whole recorporealization thing, but he clamps his mouth shut. Instead he channels his scientific curiosity into the device in his hands.

The mechanism is a thing of beauty, really. At the surface it’s a highly sensitive listening device. On the lower levels are dozens of nearly microscopic sensors tuned to internal body temperature, heart rate, blood oxygen content, and the chemicals of the human body. Beyond them are tiny needles, each carrying a different hormone or neurotransmitter. His tests detect epinephrine, oxytocin, dopamine, testosterone-- and he suspects he’s going to find a whole lot more.

The detached scientist in Carlos can’t help but be impressed. Technology like this could revolutionize treatment for virtually every illness associated with chemical imbalance. It’s a breakthrough on par with Penicillin.

The rest of him is disgusted with the thought. Revolutionary, yes. But also incredibly dangerous. Because they’re all naturally occurring chemicals, they wouldn’t show up on any of the tests Carlos thought to run, and he would never have thought to look for elevated levels of any of them. In the right doses, those chemicals can control everything-- if not a person’s thoughts, then every internal process that can lead those thoughts in whatever direction a person wants.

He’d be little more than a human puppet.

Carlos swallows. “The business card had an address on it. Our address. That didn’t strike you as suspicious?”

“The last time I was in town, Cecil lived somewhere else. And alone,” Earl adds in an undertone. “When I saw it was him, I tried to leave. I swear, I tried. It just… didn’t work.” It sounds more like humiliated avoidance than the uncertainty of a lie, but Carlos needs to be sure.

“Didn’t work as in…?”

“I fainted, okay? A couple of times. And when I came to, I was in quarantine.”

The right combination of hormones could do that. Especially if he was positioned where StrexCorp wanted him.

Unless this is some kind of elaborate lie.

But he only even found the device by accident. StrexCorp couldn’t possibly have thought that far ahead, could they?

Could they?

He checks the clock (a nervous habit; the only real timepiece in Night Vale is gone); the interrogator should be here by now. Tamika should have checked in with him.

Unless Strex got them already. Carlos himself had only barely escaped the notice of the yellow helicopters. And the rest of the resistance was being rounded up by the dozens, according to the blizzard of texts he received before his phone shut down. Those who managed to escape will be scrambling to find new safe houses.

Even if the resistance isn’t completely destroyed, it’s been more than decimated. There won’t be enough Advanced Readers left to launch the kind of counterstrike necessary to get Cecil back. Not before StrexCorp has had a chance to destroy him.

Clenching his fists, Carlos moves to stand over Earl once more.

“Since you’re feeling so chatty, let’s talk.”


	9. Securely tied and bound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Earl channels his inner Michael Westin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Pat Benatar's song

Earl isn’t sure exactly what caused the change, but Carlos is calmer now. Less venomous, more focused-- more the scientist that Earl’s come to know over the past few days. The questions he asks are endless and absurdly detailed, but Earl answers to the best of his ability. Meanwhile Carlos takes notes and makes sketches with pointedly illegal writing utensils. Of course, breaking laws probably don’t matter much to him, now that Strex controls the police.

Most notably, Carlos is the one asking the questions here. The he keeps mentioning the interrogators, but every time he brings them up it’s with a stronger undercurrent of anxiety.

After hours of interrogation, Carlos leaves. When he comes back he’s got pizza with him-- still gluten-free, Earl notices, and still with extra sandworm -- and holds the slices over his face so he can chew with some semblance of dignity.

When the pseudo-interrogation resumes, Earl interjects more often, volunteering details and making suggestions. It’s already apparent that most of Carlos’ understanding of strategy comes from movies and time spent in the presence of other revolutionaries. It’s only polite to correct the misinformation and fill in some of the blanks in his understanding.

His voice goes dry and croaky from talking so much, and he’s started to fidget  as much as his restraints will allow.

“Getting uncomfortable?” Carlos asks-- not cruel, just curious. That’s a good sign.

Of course, ‘uncomfortable’ is an understatement. Earl’s been lying on the hard ground for hours, his joints are overextended, and the blood has been pooling painfully into sores. But he’s a Scoutmaster, and he’ll be damned if he’ll whimper about anything as small as that.

A full bladder, though, that he can complain about.

“Any chance for a bathroom break?” he asks.

Now it’s Carlos’ turn to be uncomfortable. “Can you hold it?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the past… how long have I been here?”

“The interrogator will be here soon.”

Earl gives him as flat a look as he can while handcuffed to the floor. “And if he isn’t?”

“He will.”

Earl rolls his eyes. “I don’t know how these things work where you’re from, but here in Night Vale, certain bodily functions come with a time limit. And I’m at the end of mine.”

Carlos is definitely fidgeting now. If there’s one thing they never tell you about advanced interrogation, it’s how much literal shit is involved in the process-- and it’s a lot-- and it always ends up catching the newbies by surprise. Carlos is nothing if not a newbie. Which means he isn’t ready to deal with the associated mess, which means--

“Fine.” Carlos makes a show of grabbing a gun, a bowie knife, and a syringe of sedative before he kneels at Earl’s side. “Calm down already.”

He adds generic warnings while he unlocks one of the handcuffs from the iron ring on the floor and fastens it to his own wrist. Not a smart move: if Earl were desperate enough, he’d have no qualms about grabbing that knife and sawing through Carlos’ arm. When the last of the cuffs are unlocked, Earl struggles to his feet. The change in position leaves his head spinning. His joints are stiff, his limbs swollen, his reactions sluggish and clumsy. Not ideal. But then, he really does have to pee.

Carlos doesn’t release his wrist when he brings him to a men’s bathroom (Big Rico’s is particularly considerate about their underground labyrinth), but he politely looks away while Earl relieves himself. There’s some leaning involved when Earl goes to wash his hands-- his arms are longer than Carlos’, and the scientist has to tilt awkwardly to give Earl proper access to the sink. It’s a precarious position: unbalanced and unguarded, with several vulnerable points left exposed to attack.

For instance, a crescent kick to the back of his knees. A second blow hits the back of the head, slamming Carlos’ face into the basin. He slides to the floor in a daze. Not wasting a second, Earl pins him down, grabbing the knife, gun and syringe out of his coat pocket before the scientist can reach him. With the weapons safely out of reach, Earl wraps his cuffed hands around.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” he says, giving a warning squeeze. “The resistance. Have they gone to rescue Cecil yet?”

“What?”

“Answer the question. Yes or no.” Another squeeze leaves Carlos choking. _See, Carlos? **This** is how you question a prisoner._

“I don’t know!” he gasps when the pressure eases up. “Maybe?”

“Maybe isn’t good enough.” He flexes his fingers, a warning. “Give me the keys to the cuffs.”

“So you can get back to Strex?”

“So I can save your boyfriend,” he snaps. “He’s been gone for hours already. Every minute they have him decreases his chances of living through this. Now are you going to give me the keys or am I going to have to search your corpse?”

Carlos rifles through his jeans pocket with his free hand, glaring at Earl all the while. “He’s just a radio host. In all probability they’re detaining him just like everyone else.”

Who ever said scientists were supposed to be smart?

“He’s a public figure, you idiot,” Earl growls. “He’s the Voice. Everybody knows him, and everybody likes him. If they want to strike the biggest blow to morale, they’ll make an example of him. It’ll be big, it’ll be public, and it’ll be painful.” It’ll trigger one of two outcomes: either the resistance will strike back and make a stupid mistake, or its spirit will break and it’ll fall apart altogether. Either way, Strex wins and Cecil dies.

An undertone of green color’s Carlos’ face as he hands over the key. “You really are working for them.”

“What? Of course not.”  Earl leans back to unlock the cuffs. “That’s from the Crushing Insurgency badge. It’s a requirement for advancing to Webelo.” He pockets the gun, snatches up the knife, and squeezes the excess air out of the syringe.

“Wait,” Carlos says abruptly. Earl doesn’t even humor him with a reply-- the clock is ticking. But the look Carlos gives him could cut diamond. “I’m coming with you.”

Earl could argue with him. After all, Carlos drugged him and chained him to the floor. Carlos has been watching him like a guard dog since he got here.

And that’s exactly why he climbs off Carlos’ stomach and yanks him to his feet.

“We’ll need a car,” he says gruffly.

“We’ll need supplies first,” the scientist argues, beckoning for Earl to follow him deeper into the labyrinth.

This could be a trap: lead the escaped prisoner into another cell. Or an ambush. It makes sense-- hell, it’s what Earl would do.

But not in this situation. Not with Cecil’s life at stake.

And that’s why he follows Carlos without hesitation. Because if the scientist is loyal to anyone, it’s Cecil. Because every question he’s asked Earl for the past several hours has indicated one intention: to break into StrexCorp and find Cecil, alone if necessary.

So he isn’t particularly surprised when Carlos leads him to a weapons cache, complete with an entire wall of home-made plastic explosives. Impressed, maybe, but not definitely surprised.


	10. I will be the one that's gonna find you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now working together, Carlos and Earl take on StrexCorp to rescue Cecil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Whispers in the Dark" by Skillet
> 
> You can find me at http://thief-in-the-dark.tumblr.com/

“I thought you were a scientist,” Earl says, collecting arrows from the bodies of the security guards.

“Ever heard of computer science?” Carlos snaps back. Admittedly, he’s not a computer scientist, but he’s allowed to have hobbies. He can’t take complete credit for the program he’s running at the moment-- among the developers are a severed adult man’s hand named Megan and a lovesick computer that pretends it can’t feel emotions-- but he’s not about to advertise that fact to Mr. Legolas Everdeen over there.

He’d be using a gun himself, but this mission requires stealth, and guns don’t kill people anyway. So instead he’s playing tech support while Earl stabs, shoots, and karate-chops every Strex employee they’ve passed so far. No alarms have been tripped yet, so that’s a good sign.

There’s a soft trill as the program finally cracks the computer’s code, opening up the password-protected files for his perusal and bringing the most relevant ones to the forefront. He sends the building’s floor plan to the printer. The rest of the documents he scans only briefly before he transfers them to a USB. For the sake of the resistance, he needs to gather as much information as he can-- and for Cecil’s sake, he needs to do it fast.

“It’s done,” he says, pulling the USB out and stuffing it into his backpack. “Every digital lock in the building will be open. It’s just the manual ones we need to worry about.”

“Those won’t be a problem.” Earl pats the lockpick in his cargo pockets. Because _of course_ Earl knows how to pick locks. What _doesn’t_ he know how to do?

Carlos grabs a highlighter off the desk and circles the holding cells where they’re most likely holding Cecil and the others. “Looks like there’s a storage room along this corridor. We can cut through there, avoid being seen.”

Earl glances over his shoulder at the map and frowns, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to; Carlos can see the reason for it just fine. There’s a more direct route, just down this hall and to the right, past a whole line of office space that’s somehow still occupied at this hour. Earl could probably sneak through without too much trouble-- after all, he had to master invisibility before he could teach it to his scouts-- but Carlos couldn’t. And even if Carlos thought Earl wouldn’t need his help, he doesn’t like the idea of getting caught alone in StrexCorp’s headquarters, even with a gun.

He plants an explosive charge under the computer he’s been using and hoists the bag back onto his shoulders. He and Earl exchange a quick glance, and then the Scoutmaster fades out of sight.

Carlos moves through the hallways with an air of businesslike urgency and StrexCorp’s patented serial killer grin plastered over his face, signalling directions to Earl with slight movements of his head. Sure, the backpack and labcoat are a bit out of place, but most people don’t seem to notice. Those who do are quickly dispatched and dragged out of sight by the invisible Scoutmaster.

It’s almost surprising how easy this is. After all the months Tamika and her forces spent gathering recon and making plans, the actual execution is almost effortless. He tells himself it’s because there’s just the two of them: it’s a whole lot easier for two men to infiltrate such a heavily-populated building than it would be for dozens of kids.

It’s not until he’s up to his neck in killer robots that he remembers: he’s been living in Night Vale long enough to be considered a citizen, and the town’s official pastimes are denial and self-delusion.

They get halfway through the storage area-- the obvious route-- when the doors slam shut, and he catches the scent of burnt rubber and motor oil. From behind the rows of shelves come figures. Not people, but machines meant to look like them, not unlike the mechanical supervisor who had been making Cecil’s life miserable for the past few months. At least a dozen of them, with more coming from every direction.

“A trap,” Earl mutters from somewhere to his right.

“Thank you, Admiral Ackbar.” The reference is lost on Earl-- _Star Wars_ never made it through the process for municipal approval-- but it makes him feel better.

“Hello, friend,” says the closest of the machines, its voice so saccharine it turns his stomach. “Looks like you aren’t authorized to be here. You need to report to Human Resources for disciplinary actions right away.”

Carlos has seen the files on Human Resources at StrexCorp; the name isn’t some cute buzzword. People sent there are broken down into their component parts and repurposed into whatever materials the company needs out of them. Leather chairs, for example, are never in short supply.

“Really?” Carlos asks, digging through his bag as the machines draw closer. “This place is off limits? I didn’t know. Think we can overlook it, just this once?”

“Don’t be silly.” From their arms unfold weapons, mostly blades and clubs. “Of course you knew. All authorized areas can be found on page four-ninety-five of the employee handbook. All StrexCorp employees have memorized the employee handbook. Report to Human Resources for disciplinary actions right away.”

Finally Carlos’ hands close around the long cylinders at the bottom of the bag. He pulls them out, and two disappear into thin air. “I’m sorry, my blood glucose levels are low right now, and I’m having trouble remembering where HR is. Do you think you could show me?” He curls around the remaining two cylinders.

The machine’s lips peel back into a nightmarish grin as it steps forward. “It would be my plea--”

Carlos whips the stun batons from his bag and brings them down on either side of the machine’s neck. The machine goes rigid, convulses, and then falls back with a reek of burning rubber. He doesn’t wait for it to stop twitching before he lunges for the next one, bringing the baton down on its forehead with an overhand swipe. He can’t see Earl, but he can hear more machines collapsing behind him.

Something that looks like a morningstar whizzes past his head and Carlos drops down, smacking his baton into the robot’s knee and short-circuiting it before it can get in a second swipe. But he’s lost his ground-- now there are three crowded around him while he’s trapped on the floor, their weapons raised, and for a wild moment he’s having flashbacks of Middle School. Instinctively he curls into a ball to protect his head and neck, though science warns him that the machines will be able to strike with too much force for him to get out of this alive.

Abruptly one of the machines careens sideways and crashes into another one, and they land in a pile along with a now-visible Earl. The third robot is still standing and poised to strike, unperturbed by the interruption. But it’s enough to snap Carlos back into the moment. He grabs his baton and cracks it across the machine’s kneecaps just as its weapon comes rushing at his face. The weapon freezes mere inches from his skull, shaking violently before the machine overbalances.

Carlos climbs to his feet as another cluster of robots advances from around the shelves. “You all right, Earl?”

“Dandy,” the Scoutmaster says, disentangling himself from the metallic bodies.

Carlos would grace this with a witty one-liner, but one of the robots picks that moment to try and stick a fist through his chest. He ducks just in time, and its arm impales one of the shelved crates instead. He ducks down, sweeping two of the robots with a swing that would make Obi Wan proud while the first one is busy dislodging its arm. A two-handed crack, and another pair goes down.

Forget feeling inferior to Earl-- Carlos is awesome. He’s going to find Cecil and save him and when they get home he’s going to tell him all about this and--

The last robot finally dislodges its arm, smashing the crate in the process. Reflexively Carlos brings down his baton across its neck, but he needn’t have bothered. The machine has already gone still.

A torrent of oranges fall from the shattered container. They hit him softly-- if anything, it feels like falling into a ball pit-- bringing with them the slightly sour smell of rotten citrus.

The world seems to slow down.

On the far side of the shelf, safely out of the way, Earl finally climbs to his feet. “Nice going there. You ready to--” He frowns. “Carlos? What is it?” He takes a step forward.

“Stay back!” Carlos snarls. Adrenaline leaves him cold. His heart is racing. “Get out of here. Don’t touch them.”

The Scoutmaster shakes his head. “What’s going on?”

He doesn’t know. Of course he doesn’t know. A hysterical laugh bubbles in Carlos’ throat, but he swallows it down. Already Earl is moving oddly, like the skipping image on a scratched DVD. His face has twisted into an expression of horror.

A thousand thoughts rush through Carlos’ mind-- rage, panic, grief, hysteria-- but he bottles them up and shoves them to the back of his mind. He is a scientist. He can be practical.

“You and Cecil,” he says, pulling off his bag. “You really love him, or was that just Strex?”

A momentary lapse as Earl struggles to string the disjointed syllables together. Carlos must be flickering out of existence pretty quickly for it to take so much effort.

Finally Earl nods. Slowly. “I do.”

“Good.” Carlos hurls the bag to him-- the map, the jump drive, the remaining weapons and explosives. He’ll need them. “Then take ca


	11. Where brave and restless dreams are both won and lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Scout is prepared like a Scientist is self-reliant: not always. And definitely not for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Promises in the Dark by Pat Benatar
> 
> Please let me know if anything gets difficult to understand. Most of this chapter was written during insomniac bouts sometime between 3 and 6 AM, so things like clarity and punctuation took a bit of a hit.

A Scout is prepared the way a Scientist is self-reliant:

Meaning not always.

Especially not for this.

Earl stares at the backpack at his feet, half-expecting it to vanish, but it remains solid. Unlike the floor and shelving in front of him. Unlike Carlos.

Numb, he picks it up. Takes out the map. Removes the shortbow that was fastened over his chest, and pulls the straps over his shoulders.

He looks at the map, but it takes a moment to make sense of the letters and shapes. Not because maps are broken, not because he got hit by the weekly Dyslexia and Dysgraphia Lottery. He just can’t.

Earl knew when he set out that this would be dangerous. He knew that there was a 50/50 shot of not walking out of this building alive. He also knew that of the two of them, he was the one who was expendable. He’s already died, after all. And Cecil doesn’t need him.

He needs Carlos.

And now Carlos is gone.

_Breathe, Harlan. Focus. You’ve got a job to do._

Earl glances at the map, memorizes his new path. It takes a few steadying breaths, but he can reach out, bend the light around him until he’s less than a flicker, just two miniscule points of darkness where the light hits his pupils.

The route Carlos chose was the more obvious one: out of the way, relatively unguarded, unwatched. Easy to ambush.

He suspects the other route-- the one that passes straight through the Strex offices-- will be just as heavily guarded. But Earl isn’t without advantages.

The offices are as cramped and crowded as a beehive; considering the abundance of yellow and the saccharine grins on every face, it’s not a bad comparison. He’ll have to remember that for Poetry Week next year. You know, if he survives that long.

He has to move slowly to avoid the bodies as they mill from station to station. It’s occurred to him that even if he’s invisible, he’d be easily detected by heat sensors; they’ll have a harder time spotting him among the overclocked computers and overworked office drones. Even if they do detect him, the guards will have to disrupt their workers in order to get to him. Everything Earl has learned about StrexCorp tells him they won’t take such a hit to their efficiency.

No. They’ll make their move later. Until then, Earl has a chance to regroup.

Strex won’t have used the brunt of its forces in the ambush. They’ll know exactly why he’s here, even if by some slim chance they haven’t figured out exactly who among their prisoners he’s most motivated to save.

Though, all things considered, they probably know that, too.

He’s still got a healthy number of explosives, but those were never his forte-- and given what he does know, there’s a good chance of he’ll blow the prisoners to paste if he tries anything. There’s no point in taking hostages-- Tamika Flynn has already tried that, but StrexCorp doesn’t put enough value in the lives of any of its employees.

He looks around once again, and this time he takes a good, long look at the people around him:Grinning.  Efficient. Insectoid in their single-minded focus.

Drugged out of their minds. A few days ago, he wasn’t much better off.

And just like that, a new plan clicks into place.

One of the workers leaves the desk to use the bathroom, and Earl ducks under her desk and regains visibility, just long enough to glance at the map. He marks the location on the map: eight floors below. The prisoners being held down the hall will have to wait a little bit longer.

He slips into an elevator behind a crowd of workers; as soon as the last ones have stepped out, he presses his own button.

He could probably pry open a ceiling tile, shimmy up the cable, and wedge open the door-- but by the time he did, the surveillance system would probably have picked something up, and he’d have nothing to show for his efforts except for wasted time and exhaustion. Better to move quickly and let them scramble to catch up.

The chemical lab reminds him absurdly of the one Carlos keeps-- kept-- in the basement, though the instruments are more obsessively clean, the equipment labeled with printed labels instead of the scientist’s messy handwriting. And, of course, it takes up an entire floor, rather than sharing room with the washer and dryer.

He sets the bombs as carefully as he’s able, avoiding load-bearing walls. Any explosion’s going to compromise the building’s structural integrity, but he doesn’t want it to bring it down entirely-- not while there are still people inside. Strex may be the enemy, but he’s not a monster.

That taken care of, he unleashes his inner toddler. He touches everything, mixes chemicals just to see what colors they’ll turn, pours whole vials onto the computers to watch them spark, twists knobs and pulls levers. He has no idea what’ll cause the most damage-- yet another task Carlos was far more qualified for-- but he can still wreak havoc. The brunt of his attention is on the biggest vats. He has no idea what they’re for, but it must be important.

StrexCorp used their pharmaceuticals to control him, and it’s using them to control their employees. Maybe messing with the lab won’t instantly cure them, but it’s a blow that Strex is guaranteed to feel.

The finishing touch is a parting gift from Carlos: he called it the Distract-O-Bot, a machine cobbled together from a Roomba, a kitchen timer, a handgun, and an assortment of fireworks that should reasonably be illegal in most parts of the country.

The little machine is all but invisible to the cameras as it whirs between the maze of lab tables and counter space; Earl sets the timer and leaves it to do its thing and then flattens himself against the wall beside the lab door. Like clockwork, guards and robots come rushing in, weapons raised. Unseen, he slips between them and makes for the elevator again.

Three minutes.

The crack of bullets sound behind him by the time the elevator doors open up.

Two minutes.

The elevators, like all things at StrexCorp, are remarkably efficient. He counts out forty-five seconds before the door opens up on the right floor. Another three as he pulls off his bow and nocks an arrow to the string, and then he takes off down the hall. Even if nobody’s picking up his heat signature, his footfalls must be echoing, but he doesn’t care-- not until he reaches the end of the hall.

Sure enough, a small army of guards is stationed around the holding cells, several of them decked out with specialized goggles. He ducks behind a corner, his bow at the ready-- and then backs into the protection of a doorway, just to be safe.

He’s lost count of the seconds, but it should be--

The floor rattles under his feet as the Distract-O-Bot’s fireworks go off, setting off the blocks of plastic explosive around the lab. Ceiling tiles crack and crumble, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

Peeking around the corner, he sees several of the robots twitch and spark-- either from the dust or because the explosion interfered with a remote control or something sciency like that. Whatever the cause, they’re out of commission.

A number of the guards take off for chemical labs eight floors below, and for the chemical storage facility on the floor beneath them. Others stay behind, shouting to be heard over one another, rushing in circles and yelling into walkie-talkies that crackle with interference.

In all the chaos, they don’t even notice Earl’s started shooting until the third guard falls to the floor, an arrow in his back.

It takes them another three arrows to figure out where Earl is firing from. Some of the guards bullrush him; others start firing blindly in his direction.

Two more go down and he’s out of arrows. He brings the bow down across the nearest guard’s head and grabs for the stun batons. His hand barely closes around the first when a bullet grazes him across the calf. The pain is searing hot, but he’s still up. No severed tendons-- he can still walk.

He brings the baton across the nearest guard’s face, but aside from the physical blow, it does nothing. It’s out of charge.

_Dammit._

Another bullet whizzes past him, another. How are they getting more accurate?

A glance down. Oh. he’s standing in a pool of blood. That would do it.

He ducks and rolls, yelping as his wounded leg makes contact with the ground. The blood spatter will give away his location, but at least he’s got another couple of seconds while the guards readjust their aim.

 _Just keep moving. Don’t stop, don’t slow down._ He can’t fail. Not now.

Because if he doesn’t make it, they’ll kill Cecil for sure. Him and all the other prisoners, too. Tamika and her army are too far behind-- there’s no chance of them swooping in for a last-minute rescue before Strex avenges its losses with Night-Valian blood.

Another graceless dive takes him to the locked door and the pile of fallen guards. There’s not much blood here, but enough that his own wounds won’t make him so easy to spot. He grabs a gun from one of the bodies and empties the magazine down the hall. The other guards scatter, haphazardly returning fire.

He takes shelter behind a pair of robots, but another bullet grazes his arm. Another glancing blow, even if it hurts like hell. He’s been lucky so far. It’s not going to last much longer.

The door is right there. He could pick the lock, but that’ll take time and two hands-- and that means losing cover fire.

And then what? Let the prisoners walk out into a volley of bullets? Even if some of them are members of the NRA, he’s pretty sure that the guns will still kill them. Or, you know, cause enough organ damage to do the job coincidentally.

Desperate, he scans the bodies of the nearest guards, searching for more ammunition-- and promptly facepalms.

On the nearest guard hangs a utility belt, carrying a gun holster, a walkie-talkie, and a ring of keys.

He pockets a second gun and plasters himself against the door, shooting with one hand while he fumbles the keys into the locks with the other. The last gun clicks, empty, and his stomach gives a lurch. And then the key turns.

He ducks behind the steel door and locks it behind him, just in case. It’s a futile gesture: he’s pretty sure the dead guard wasn’t the only one with a key, which means the others will be able to get through in a matter of seconds.

He allows himself to turn visible again and rifles through Carlos’ backpack. There’s not much left. Just some rope, a small first-aid kit, a few USBs, and a remote detonator.

He used the remainder of the plastic explosive in the chemical lab, but the rest should still be among the computers in this floor, where Carlos set them. There were a lot; the backpack was practically bursting at the seams before they arrived at the StrexCorp headquarters, and it was decidedly floppy by the time Earl got his hands on it.

“Here goes nothing,” Earl mutters under his breath, activates the detonator.

There’s a half-second’s delay before the world turns upside down. The explosion knocks him off his feet, and the roar of it leaves his ears ringing long after he scrapes himself up off the ground. The floor is cracked, and the walls are bowed from concussive force. It’s a miracle the building is still standing after a blast like that; the people out in the hall certainly aren’t. A quick glance out the mangled door confirms there are no survivors. He heaves the door shut again and slumps against it, listening.

No footfalls head this way. In the distance there are muffled sounds of confusion, but they lack the urgency of an organized force on the defensive. It’s the sound of pacing and whispering, of waiting for something to happen.

It’s a sound he last heard under a tent in the vacant lot behind the Ralph’s, surrounded by hundreds of mute children with vacant eyes and grasping hands.

Shuddering, he pushes himself off the door and staggers forward. The room is a monitoring station, one wall covered in darkened, sparking screens. According to the map, the door on the far side of the room opens into a grid of holding cells.

His stomach ties itself into a double carrick bend knot.

Cecil’s on the other side of that door-- assuming Earl isn’t too late. Assuming Strex hasn’t moved him. Assuming the explosions didn’t reach him here.

He’s been assuming so much lately, and every time he’s been proven wrong.

Dread leeches away the adrenaline in his system, leaving him cold and shaking. His wounds throb in time with his heartbeat, and the pain turns sharp and stabbing when he puts weight on his injured leg. His hands shake as he struggles to unlock the main door into the hallway.

Another few steps, and his leg no longer wants to carry his weight. He leans against the wall for support as he makes his way to the first cell. He can’t see anybody on the other side of the little viewing window, but Strex took dozens of people-- way more than there are holding areas. So there must be people inside. Unless they’re gone. Unless they’re all dead. Unless he’s too late.

 _Unless, unless, unless_. It crackles through his mind like static.

He takes a deep breath, unlocks the door, and pushes it open.

In that instant he is struck by two things: an uppercut and an unnerving sense of _deja vu_.

Because once again he’s back where he started.

Dizzy, shaking, and falling forward through a doorway, into the waiting arms of Cecil Palmer.


	12. Steal a kiss and you'll break your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figure it's about time for a Mumford and Sons song quote, don't you?
> 
> Also, this chapter wound up being longer than I anticipated, so there'll be one(+?) more.

There’s a hand on Earl’s face. Warm, soft, gentle. The baritone in his ear is dark and velvety and wonderful.

“Earl.” Ah, he could listen to that for the rest of his life. “Earl, I’m sorry I punched you, but you need to wake up. We have to go.”

Another layer of awareness blooms, and Earl realizes he’s in pain. His right leg, his left arm, and most of his lower jaw are radiating it, along with the smaller aches of strained muscles and heavy bruises all over.

A feather-light touch brushes along his hairline. That feels nice.

“Earl, please. We have to go.”

Earl can discern other qualities to the voice now, beyond loveliness. It’s hoarse, hushed, edged with urgency and distress.

Fear?

His eyes snap open. He’s on his back on the floor, and Cecil’s crouched over him. The room is dim, lit by the glow of broken screens along one wall. The light casts eerie shadows across Cecil’s face, but he doesn’t look hurt.

_Thank the Spire._

“Cecil?” Ouch. Hurts to talk. “What happened?”

“I-- uh--” Cecil looks away, chagrined. “I knocked you out. Thought you were one of the Strex goons. Sorry about that.” The embarrassment melts away and he’s alert again. Professional. “Can you sit up? We need to go before the fighting starts.”

Fighting? Earl sits up and immediately regrets it. His head is swimming, and most of his body rallies in protest against the sudden movement.

On the bright side, Cecil wraps an arm around his shoulders to steady him. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Earl lies. It’s just pain, after all. “Can you-- ah-- talk to me? What’s going on?”

“You and I are designated civilians right now. We’re not the only ones.” Cecil points out Old Woman Josie and Nazr al-Mujaheed and a few others while he helps Earl to his feet. Earl’s right leg still doesn’t like him at the moment, but he can stand when he’s leaning against Cecil. “We’re being escorted out by Teddy Williams’ militia before they join the Advanced Readers.”

“From the beginning, please,” Earl mutters. With Cecil’s help, he hobbles along with the rest of the designated civilians into the fire-blasted hallway, while adults carrying impromptu weapons circle protectively around them. Every step hurts, but it’s easier to walk when he can focus on Cecil’s voice.

“Um, like I said, I punched you out,” he begins. “But to be fair, I didn’t know it was you. Or that you were trying to set us free. Or that you were hurt-- Teddy Williams says you were starting to go into shock. He treated you, by the way. You should be all right for the most part, but we should still get you to a hospital when we get back home.”

Home. It’s a nice word. “Anything you say, Cecil.”

“Anyway, while Teddy was working on you, Larry Leroy grabbed the keys you had with you and let everybody else out. There was a lot of bickering, a lot of asking for bathroom breaks-- imprisonment, am I right? Anyway, after a while we decided to send Trish Hidge and David Clearwater out to steal a phone, so they could contact Tamika Flynn.”

Earl frowns. David Clearwater he understands-- the boy is a Dreadnaught Scout and a master of invisibility. It’s the other name that catches him off guard. “Why Trish Hidge?”

“She can turn into a puff of smoke,” Cecil explains. “As the assistant to the mayor, she shares all the mayor’s powers. We figured it was good for getting into those hard-to-reach places.”

“Good thinking.”

The elevator doors are crumpled beyond recognition. There’s no way they’ll be opening any time soon. That leaves ten flights of stairs.

Oh joy.

“Are you all right, Earl?”

“Just keep talking, please.”

Still hoarse, Cecil continues. “Anyway, they got a hold of Tamika Flynn. Turns out, she was already heading over. She didn’t exactly anticipate your daring rescue” --a dopey grin settles on Earl’s face before another flash of pain drives it away-- “but after what happened, she gathered what remained of the resistance and charged into battle. She’s been kidnapping StrexCorp helicopter pilots for months now and re-educating them for a moment like this. It’s funny-- all this time, Strex was expecting them to launch a ground-based assault, but the Advanced Readers are landing on rooftops of skyscrapers and working their way down.”

“Death from above. It’s an impressive strategy for a thirteen-year-old,” Earl muses.

“It’d be just as impressive from Lao Tsu.”

Earl decides not to point out that Lao Tsu didn’t have helicopters at his disposal. Besides, Cecil’s got a point: impressive is impressive. Whoever neglected to recruit that girl into Scouts missed a major opportunity.

Cecil opens his mouth to continue, but they’re interrupted by the sounds of struggle below. Teddy Williams and a cluster of armed men and women peel off from the group and join the fighting, while the rest redouble their pace. Nazr al-Mujaheed crowds in and pulls Earl’s free arm over his shoulder, and between him and Cecil they manage to move pretty quickly, silent except for the pounding of feet on stairs.

By the time they reach the parking lot, their escort has dwindled to just a few young scouts, who smash open the windows of nearby cars and proceed to hotwire them. The cars in Desert Bluffs are eerie-- mindless and obedient, lobotomized hulks that barely respond with more than the rumble of an engine when they’re sparked awake.

Their orders, according to Cecil, are clear: get back to Night Vale. The rest of the fighters will find their way back after the battle’s over.

“How’s your arm?” Cecil asks him, after getting Old Woman Josie behind a cherry red convertible. “Do you think you can take care of one of these cars, or should we call--”

In an instant his face brightens, the worry and weariness falling away like a discarded shroud. Revving towards them is a familiar Hybrid Coupe, eager and lively as it races to greet Cecil.

And Cecil asks the question Earl didn’t even realize he’d been dreading: “Oh! Carlos is here?”

The elation doesn’t quite leave his face when he spots the empty driver’s seat. There’s only a twinge of confusion. He glances back to the skyscraper they just escaped.

Earl sets a hand on his shoulder. “Cecil. We need to go.”

When Cecil meets his eye, his expression is innocent. Almost childlike. “But Carlos--”

“He isn’t coming.”

Helicopters are matched in aerial battles overhead, but Earl can barely hear them over the sound of Cecil’s soft voice. It’s almost a whisper. “You go. I have to stay. If he gets hurt--”

“There’s nothing you can do for him anymore,” Earl says. “I’m sorry, Cecil. He’s gone.”

* * *

Earl explains while Cecil drives. There aren’t many alternatives, because Earl’s leg can’t handle the strain of holding down the gas pedal long enough to reach Night Vale, and Cecil refuses to go anywhere without the full story.

He’s a reporter. That’s kind of his thing.

Earl starts with the end and works backwards: first the oranges, then the fight that preceded it, the way Carlos hacked the computer systems, the way he snuck them in through StrexCorp’s front door without anyone being any wiser, the way he caught Earl and questioned him in an effort to protect Cecil. To be honest, Earl didn’t plan to explain it this way, but he keeps going, elaborating on elaborations, just for the sake of having words to fill the silence.

He isn’t sure what’s going to happen when he stops talking.

Cecil hasn’t said a word since he got in the car. He stares straight ahead, his knuckles white as he grips the steering wheel.

It reminds Earl of a time he took the Scouts rock climbing. One boy hadn’t tied his safety line properly, and the rope fell away entirely. He was a good hundred yards up a sheer rock face with no way up and no way down. The boy looked at the slip of stone that served as a handhold, at the half-inch that he was using for a foothold, and then stared straight ahead. He’d already resigned himself to falling. The only thing left to decide was whether his hands or his feet would lose their grip first.

At the time, Earl had climbed to his side as quickly as he dared, bearing a second rope and shouting encouragement: “You’re fine. Everything’s going to be okay. I’m almost there.”

This time the only lifeline he has to offer is himself.

* * *

The house is too quiet.

Earl never noticed before how much noise there used to be-- old weather tracks blaring from speakers, the rattle and whir of Carlos’ equipment in the basement, footsteps dancing through the halls, constant conversations that were shouted between walls when they weren’t whispered in closets.

Now there’s only silence, and every creaking floorboard underfoot seems almost deafening for the intrusion.

At first Earl tries to give Cecil his space, let him process his loss in peace. But this isn’t peace. The silence festers and grows, demanding stillness, and every hour it pulls Cecil deeper into its infection.

He isn’t eating. Isn’t sleeping.

And so,  Earl makes a decision.

“I’m hungry,” he announces-- and even though it’s soft, it still feels invasive and crude. “You want something?”

It’s not the first time he’s asked this question, so the wordless head-shake doesn’t come as a surprise.

For the past few days he’s navigated the kitchen like a minefield, moving each article so carefully that there’s no noise. This time he’s deliberately careless. There’s a sharp clack as a frying pan hits the stovetop, a drawn-out sizzle as butter melts against the metal. He hunts down whatever edible vegetables he can find in the refrigerator and chops them with reckless abandon, emphasizing each crunch of broken greenery, each clack of metal on the plastic cutting board.

Combined with some sauces, egg, and leftover Chinese takeout that hasn’t yet developed sentience, he creates a pseudo-stir-fry. It smells delicious-- tangy and savory-- and clearly Cecil’s noticed. He looks curious, possibly even a little bit hopeful, and then his expression takes on a note of grateful surprise when Earl presents him with a bowl.

After dinner he pops in a DVD and settles into the couch beside Cecil, carefully positioned so their shoulders are just barely touching. Not obtrusive, not pushy, but present. The movie isn’t even half over when Cecil leans into him, his expression soft, his breathing steady. Earl smooths a hand over his hair, but he’s careful not to wake him. It’s the first time Cecil’s slept soundly since he got back; he’s not about to spoil that. He tucks a blanket around the other man and holds him close, until he falls asleep to the sound of static and Cecil’s breathing.

It becomes a ritual between them, and slowly Earl draws Cecil out of the darkest parts of his grief with food and soft words and constant little touches, just to remind him he isn’t alone. There’s some fumbling in regards to sleeping arrangements-- the couch is too small for the both of them, and Cecil’s noticed how bleary and stiff Earl gets after those nights spent sitting upright with a radio host in his lap. He attempts to sleep alone, but that that means wide-eyed insomnia on the best nights and thrashing nightmares on the worst.

Tonight is one of the bad nights, when Cecil thrashes in bed and whimpers in his sleep. Earl doesn’t mean to intrude, but he can’t help himself. Not when Cecil’s hurting like this. He wipes away the sweat and tears as gently as he can, and slowly Cecil goes still under his touch.

He’s drawing the blanket over Cecil’s shoulders and talking himself out of placing a kiss on his forehead when he feels a hand close around his wrist.

Cecil’s awake. His eyes are wide and luminous in the near-dark, and Earl’s face warms with the all-too-familiar flush of inappropriate thoughts.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I just wanted to check up on you. I’ll be--” He tries to pull away, but Cecil’s grip is firm, and he makes a vague grunt in the negative. Then he pulls Earl’s arm tight against his chest, cradling it close like a teddy bear, and Earl has to catch himself before he falls into Cecil entirely.

A not-insignificant part of Earl’s conscience lists off all the reasons why this is wrong, beyond wrong, a gross betrayal of trust-- but he’s too busy watching the way Cecil’s eyes flicker shut, the way his breathing settles and the lines smooth from his face, and he can’t bring himself to care. With delicate movements (a holdover from the Twister subsection of the Challenging Death to Party Games badge) Earl settles himself onto the mattress.

The nightmares don’t stop after that, but they do become more rare. Less intense. More manageable.

Earl tells himself that’s enough to stave off the guilt of sleeping in Carlos’ bed.

 

* * *

The initial battle was a victory, and shortly after, so is the war. The information on Carlos’ smuggled USB gives Tamika enough ammunition to land the killing blow. Once and for all, StrexCorp is gone.

In the aftermath, everyone who’s anyone has their eye on the young woman. There’s talk of write-in ballots for the Mayoral election. Others are saying she’s earned her right to ascend to the City Council. Some argue that her role as a general should become permanent-- after all, isn’t it about time Night Vale had its own standing army?

According to one rumor, she’s toying with the idea of moving into the Library and becoming a warden of its books, helping patrons find materials while protecting them from the monsters who lurk in the shadows. The rumor claims she was inspired by stories about human Librarians-- ones that are less terrifying than they are helpful (and sometimes even a little bit sexy). The rumor claims those stories came from Carlos.

But then, it seems everything comes back to Carlos these days.

The Scientist has become a martyr of the revolution. Everywhere there’s talk about his heroism and sacrifice and devotion.

It would be sweet, if Cecil didn’t have to deal with it. Everywhere he goes, somebody brings up his loss. For the most part people mean well-- they’re curious, or concerned, or trying to be supportive-- but it’s gotten to the point where they can barely talk about anything else. Earl’s already had to chase off Leanne Hart twice already-- once with a folding chair-- for pestering Cecil for yet another interview.

Feelings toward Earl aren’t exactly benevolent. He was too involved with both sides, and words like ‘spy’ and ‘traitor’ aren’t soon forgotten. To be perfectly honest, he suspects he’d be in the Abandoned Mineshaft Outside of Town right now, if he wasn’t needed to take care of Cecil. Even so, he receives his share of silent (and not-so-silent) glares from the townsfolk.

The radio host returns to work as soon as the radio station is fully Night Vale’s again, and he manages a facade of normalcy-- after all, wearing a false smile while he delivers the news has long since been a key to his survival-- but Earl is always there to escort him too and from work, ready to glare menacingly at Leanne and anyone else who tries to get too invasive.

In the hours between, Earl sneaks off for a project of his own.


	13. When darkness comes you know I'm never far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earl's project finally comes to fruition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Skillet 
> 
> For the full effect, play “Say Something” by A Great Big World while reading this chapter

 

Reality is a series of flashes, like a star going supernova: a cascade of blinding, blazing, overwhelming light, followed by dark so deep it sucks him in and leaves nothing behind. Over and over and over again.

Now is a moment of in-between: he’s suspended. Floating. He can’t see, but not because of the overwhelming nothingness. His eyes are functioning, but there’s simply nothing to look at. The only smell is of water and salt and metal and self, but it’s subtle and it’s starting to fade into the background of his mind.

Suddenly a sound. It’s barely audible, but compared to the quiet drum of his pulse it feels too loud, too intrusive, too much. But with some focus, he can arrange the sounds into syllables, the syllables into words, the words into a question.

“Can you hear me?”

He parts his lips. Hesitates.

“It’s okay, Carlos. Take your time.”

The sound of his name sends a jolt through his body-- almost electric, but that can’t be right. An electric impulse would be dangerous when one is suspended in water--

Water. That’s where he is.

“This…” His tongue is clumsy in his mouth. “It’s…” Damn, what’s the word? “Sensory… A sensory deprivation chamber.”

“Yes, it is.” The voice is gentle. Familiar. “Coming back from where you’ve been… it isn’t easy. Your body has to get used to things again. We thought we’d try to take it slow.”

“Oh.” He considers the supernova he’s been riding as long as he can remember. “How slow?”

“You’ve only been back a few days. The sensory deprivation-- it’s helping, I think.”

“Is it?”

“You haven’t had any more seizures since we put you in there.”

Seizures. That’s new.

“Either way, they’re temporary. Mine stopped after a few weeks, anyway. And your team thinks that if we can ease you into being back, we can avoid them altogether.”

Trying to think feels like swimming through jello, but he manages to attach a name to the voice.

“Earl,” he says aloud. The name carries too many memories-- _red hair scoutmaster oranges explosions traitor Cecil take care jealousy pizza trust radio anger quarantine betrayal sick-not-sick hope listening devices StrexCorp desperation_ \--

They flash through his mind like strobe lights, and he hisses at the sudden headache.

“Hey, hey, calm down. Yes, it’s me. If this is too much for you, I can leave--”

“No!” He squeezes his eyes shut, silently recites the elements of the periodic table in alphabetical order. He doesn’t know how he knows them so easily when the recent past is so murky, but he sinks into the old habit with ease, and slowly his overtaxed brain calms itself.

“Carlos?” Earl asks quietly.

He focuses on the first cascade of memories and lays them out in front of him in some semblance of order. “There were oranges.”

“Yes.”

“I was going to disappear.”

“You did.”

Oh.

Deep breath.

“But I’m here now.”

“StrexCorp used the angels to bring me back. I figured we could try the same for you. It took a while to get it right. You weren’t in the same place-- er… non-place-- where I was.”

Questions flash to the forefront-- _how long_ and _where was I_ and _how did they do it_ and a hundred other scientific queries that make his headache spike until another long line of periodic elements smooths it down.

He needs to focus.

Carlos takes a deep breath. “I told you-- I tried to tell you--” His mouth fumbles the words.

“Cecil’s safe,” Earl offers. “We got him out. I’ve been… um… taking care of him for you.”

Carlos’ insides rearrange themselves, and his fists clench.

_What was that hesitation for? What exactly were you doing to him? What aren’t you telling me?_

Instead he asks, “How is he?”

“He’s okay. As okay as he’s going to be without you, anyway.” Earl’s voice softens. “He needs you, Carlos.”

And just like that, all the jealousy that had been curdling in Carlos’ stomach dissipates, and in its place is shame for having felt it at all.

“What about you?” he asks. “How are you doing, Earl?”

“Fine,” he says too quickly. Which is all he can expect, really, with a question like that. “Better since you got that thing out of my neck.”

“I’m sorry,” he says at last.

“Don’t worry about it. You’re here now. Everything’s going to be fine.”  Earl’s voice softly cheerful in a way that makes Carlos’ insides twist all over again. He hasn’t known Earl very long, but he isn’t a difficult man to figure out.

That’s the sound of trying to cover pain and failing miserably.

* * *

 

The scars on his chest and arms are gone-- apparently, when this body was brought back it was brought back in mint condition. He’s even regained the sensitive hearing he had before an adolescence of Daft Punk concerts and blowing things up in the name of science.

So he has no problem hearing the conversation that’s slowly moving toward him from the other side of the door.

“Earl, please. I’ve got to write a script for tonight’s show. There are sources that have to be fact-checked. I’ve got things to do.”

“It won’t take long, I promise.”

“I can come by some other day.” There’s a note of desperation in Cecil’s voice, and Carlos can’t help but wonder if Earl is physically dragging him down the hall. The official story is that Cecil’s supposed to collect some of Carlos’ personal effects, maybe do some bonding with the rest of the team of scientists-- something fairly innocuous-- but Cecil’s acting like he’s been volunteered to walk blindfolded into a nest of Librarians.

“No, Cecil,” Earl says with the gentle patience of someone who’s had too much practice at this sort of thing. “We’re already here. There’s no point in making a second trip for nothing.”

“But--”

The door swings open and Cecil stumbles inside. He shoots Earl a mild glare and rights himself, awkwardly fixing his collar and pasting a professional smile on his face.

And then he looks up.

Maybe he freezes, or maybe that’s just time in Night Vale doing what it does. His jaw goes slack, his eyes go wide, his hand squeezes into a fist around his tie. When he does regain some slight power of locomotion, his jaw merely opens and shuts a few times.

Finally sound, even though it’s just a breath: “Carlos.”

“Hello, Cecil.” And he flashes that smile that he knows Cecil loves-- the one he flashed on that first day in Night Vale, the one that Cecil said made him fall in love.

In hindsight, that might have been a bit much. Because Cecil’s legs wobble, and he reels.

Carlos rushes forward and catches him before he hits the floor. “Hey, cariño. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. I’ve got you.” Over Cecil’s shoulder, he spots Earl, several steps closer than he was a second before, pulling awkwardly away.

He’d jumped forward to catch Cecil, too.

“You’re really here?” Cecil whimpers into his shoulder. His hands tangle in Carlos’ lab coat. “Are you sure this isn’t just a-- an illusion, or an echo, or a really good impersonation, or--”

“Don’t be silly.” Carlos gives him a reassuring squeeze. “Thanksgiving isn’t for another few months yet. It’s really me.”

“But you were--” His voice breaks, and he flounders in silence.

“I got better.”

For several long minutes they just hold each other in silence, Carlos soaking in Cecil’s warmth, the smell of desert rain that clings to his body, the sound of his shallow breathing. But a movement catches his eye: the door handle turns and the door opens, though there’s nobody standing there to open it.

“Going somewhere, Earl?” he asks, pulling away from Cecil without letting go just yet.

Like a blush rising to the surface, Earl fades back into visibility. “I was just-- you two need your privacy. I should go.”

No, he really shouldn’t. Because if he does, he won’t come back. Carlos knows it as certainly as he knows Newton’s laws.

He flashes another smile-- softer this time, more gentle, disarming-- and extends his hand. “No. Stay.”

Because that’s Earl Harlan in a nutshell: drug the man, chain him to the floor for hours, and surgically remove machinery from my body without his consent, and he’ll _thank_ you. Give him permission to pursue his lifelong crush and he’ll politely bow out. The man can kill dozens of people without batting an eye, but somehow he doesn’t have a malicious or self-serving molecule in his body.

It’s gotten him hurt, drugged, used-- hell, it’s gotten him _killed_ , in all but the most technical sense-- and somehow he still hasn’t learned. He’s just like Cecil that way: all love and trust, with no room left over for common sense.

But that’s okay. Because Carlos has enough sense for the three of them.


End file.
